The Curious Adventure of the Drs Watson
by ShinySherlock
Summary: Something's afoot, all right, thought John, but it doesn't feel like a game. (bungobaggins of tumblr won my fic giveaway and we came up with the idea of what if BBC Watson and ACD Watson swapped places somehow? Loosely based on Hound(s) of (the) Baskerville(s). Johnlock, Magical Book, Victorianlock.)
1. Chapter 1

_**Chapter 1.**__ In Which John Watson is Determined (by far the kindest word for stubborn), Dogs are Sometimes Big, and Sherlocks are Sometimes Confounding_

John Watson was determined, which meant, of course, that Sherlock Holmes was out of luck.

Nothing would move John to give in, not matter what variety of tantrum his partner decided to throw in front of their potential client, who sat, suspicious, in the red armchair John usually occupied. Beyond her expertise as a psychologist, Dr. Louise Mortimer was clever, and certainly perceptive enough, John thought, to see that the detective and the army doctor were in the midst of an argument. Only minutes before she arrived, Sherlock had been grinding out threats to both John and Mrs. Hudson in his desperation to have John reveal where he had hidden Sherlock's cigarettes. Now, peevish and agitated, Sherlock drummed his fingertips along the arm of his chair, and John frowned at him from his seat near the desk.

John turned to her and said calmly, "Dr. Mortimer, please take your time."

As the striking woman with golden skin and earnest brown eyes sat before them and related the situation, John did his best to listen, despite Sherlock's fidgeting. The case was not to be believed-a sort of canine demon targeting her patient, Henry Baskerville. She clearly didn't believe it herself, and yet the death of the man's father was real enough.

"The police haven't gotten anywhere. Can you help?" she asked, looking at them in turn.

"Of course-"

"Can't possibly get away from London right now," Sherlock declared, standing and buttoning his jacket.

John only stared up at Sherlock as he paced over in front of the desk at John's left.

"No, I've a very important case of blackmail to attend to and it will take all of my considerable attention for the foreseeable future," Sherlock continued, his tone appropriately apologetic though John knew without a doubt that he was shamming.

He narrowed his eyes and then glanced over to Louise, who was, understandably, showing signs of irritation.

"You might have said so to begin with, rather than wasting my time, Mr. Holmes," she said, her jaw tight.

"Oh, but we'll take the case," Sherlock said airily.

Ready to throttle his flatmate, John asked, "We will?"

"Of course." Sherlock reached over and patted John's shoulder significantly. "Putting my best man on it."

Coming from anyone else, it would have been a compliment, but since Sherlock had never called John his best anything, it hardly seemed like he was choosing this moment to be sincere. No. This was a bluff-by an overgrown twelve-year-old in a snit.

"Yes, Dr. Mortimer," John said, standing before Louise and nodding. She stood also, smoothing her dress, and she shook his outstretched hand.

John nodded. "I'll come out on the first train tomorrow morning."

Sherlock's fake smile dropped and his brows drew together so tightly that John nearly grinned.

"Will Mr. Holmes be joining you after, then?" Dr. Mortimer asked, confusion flitting across her angular features.

"Oh, certainly," John answered. He glanced at Sherlock. "If I need him."

Sherlock's mouth popped open.

John steered their client towards the door, helping her into her coat. "We'll get this sorted; won't take but a few days," he promised, his hand giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he led her to the landing and down the steps.

When he returned upstairs, Sherlock was still stood in the middle of the sitting room, right where John had left him. Reaching around Sherlock to get to the coffee table, John picked up the large manila envelope there that Dr. Mortimer had given them, carefully placing all the items back inside, down to the last slip of paper. Unable to resist any longer, John took a step in front of Sherlock and looked up at him. The disdainful mask was firmly in place now, and John gazed back politely in return.

"Overplayed your hand a bit there, Dr. Watson," Sherlock said, voice smooth as he slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

John pursed his lips. "Just following orders."

Icy blue eyes narrowed a fraction, and John smiled tightly.

"So, uh, you can focus now on that urgent case-blackmail, was it?" John pressed, but Sherlock refused to repeat the lie.

John nodded and looked down. "Yeah, well, good luck with that, then." He met Sherlock's eyes again, let the anger seep in for a moment. "See you in a few days."

He clutched the envelope more tightly and turned, making his way out to the landing and up the steps to his room.

Free from Sherlock's observant gaze, John tossed the envelope on the bed, not caring that the contents slid out in a jumble over the quilt. He dropped into the chair by the window and fumed, yanking off his shoes and tossing them aside. Picking at the welting along the arm of the chair, he told himself that he was not listening for signs of Sherlock stewing, Sherlock throwing his own shoes across the floor, Sherlock climbing the stairs to apologize. He snorted aloud at that particularly fantastical notion.

"Yeah. Like that's ever gonna happen."

Wonderful. He'd devolved to muttering to himself. His stomach rumbled in response, and he regretted not having dinner before making his dramatic exit. But then he heard the sounds he was not listening for, the very deliberate sounds of Sherlock leaving the flat-heavy, quick steps, a door shut soundly-deliberate because Sherlock could move with absolute silence when he wished to, and John knew it. Pushing up from the chair, he walked two paces to the window and peered out to see Sherlock crossing Baker Street, shoving his gloved hands into the pockets of his great coat as he strode away. John watched him until the back of his head of black curls disappeared around the corner-he hadn't spared one glance back.

"Angry, then?" John sniffed. "Good."

* * *

><p>Once he'd inhaled some dinner, John brought a full pot of tea upstairs with him, as, in between gulps of reheated stew, it had hit him he'd just agreed to take on a fairly serious case-by himself-and would now have to study the materials Dr. Mortimer had left for them.<p>

The night was warm, and he stripped down to only his pants and his pajama bottoms, collapsing down prone across the bed. For a moment, he hung his head over the edge of the mattress, clasping his hands over the back of his neck.

Perhaps he _had _overplayed it. Perhaps a battle of wills with Sherlock Holmes was not the best way to go about things. There was a real client, a real case, and John's confidence wavered. He knew he was smart and clever in his own right, but Sherlock . . .

Sherlock was the genius.

The sulky, tantrum-throwing genius, but still.

Exhaling a long breath, John pushed himself up to sitting and dragged the envelope towards him. He would do his best, and then if genius was required, John would find a way to get Sherlock there.

Grabbing a pen from the nightstand, John gathered the contents of the envelope and pulled the first piece of paper into his lap. He continued, diligently reading, marking up the documents, taking notes, until he had finished the last of the tea, stretched his neck until it cracked, and reached the last item-a leather-bound book.

It was small, its dimensions no taller or wider than a postcard. The dark brown leather felt buttery smooth as his fingers slid over it, the weight and shape of the book satisfying in his hand. The gilding along the edges of the pages was mostly worn away, but remnants of gold still glinted up at him in the low light. It had clearly been a well-used, well-loved book, moving supplely as he fanned the pages. A curious item slipped from between the leaves, and he lifted it to look at it more closely. At first glance it resembled a heavy pen, its case engraved and made of silver, but upon closer inspection, John found the barrel twisted to reveal a bit of graphite. John gave a half-smile at what must have been an early version of the mechanical pencil.

Returning his attention to the journal, John intended to start the the beginning, but as he reached for the open book, the words written there in a confident scrawl caught his attention.

_Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from my father, who also had it from his, I have set it down with all belief that it occurred even as is here set forth._

Ah, so here, finally, was something about the legend of the hound; John settled in to read. The journal entry told the tale of a horrible brute of a man, Hugo Baskerville, who in 1730 had kidnapped a young woman and held her hostage at Baskerville Hall. One night, she escaped, and John read with fascination and disgust how the man chased after her upon a great black horse with a pack of hunting dogs, his twelve drunken companions following with loaded pistols. The companions, a bit behind their crazed leader, stopped to ask a shepherd if he had seen the young woman.

_And the man, as the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. 'But I have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.' So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for there came a galloping across the moor, and the black mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle and empty saddle._

John's eyes remained riveted to the old, yellowing pages as he continued reading. Three of the men came upon a low spot on the moor where there stood two tall stones, and between them was the young woman, dead. The cause of death seemed vague and ridiculous-_dead of fear and of fatigue_-but the description of what else they saw drew all of John's attention.

_. . . standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor._

"Jesus Christ," John swore aloud, his eyes wide. The images playing vividly in his mind, John shuddered-but kept reading. The narrative concluded by saying the curse of the hound had plagued the Baskerville family ever since with a long line of mysterious, bloody deaths, as punishment for Hugo's actions.

John smiled thinly. Sherlock would have loved this.

Realizing how late it was, John tucked the silver mechanical pencil into the journal to hold his place; he'd read the rest on the train to Dartmoor in the morning. He sorted all the items back into the envelope and then arranged himself under the covers, reaching over to turn off the lamp on the side table.

The moment he closed his eyes, an image of a coal-black hound with glowing red eyes and dripping jowls filled his vision.

He snapped on the light and grabbed for the journal, fingers closing around the silver pencil. In a small blank space near the bottom of the page he scribbled,

_BRING GUN._

He closed the old book, tucking it under his pillow, and turned out the light once more. Flipping to lay on his belly, he buried his cheek against the pillow, one hand instinctively curling around the journal, fingers gripping the comforting worn leather.

* * *

><p>The early autumn sun shone strongly enough that John kept his eyes closed against it, reluctant to waken fully just yet. He rolled away from the window, onto his back, and threw his arm over his eyes with a grunt.<p>

He felt warm, comfortable, and when he sensed fingertips trailing down over his bare chest, it seemed the natural extension of a pleasant dream, especially since their movements were smooth and knowledgeable, making a path along John's favorite places to be touched.

He hummed, or his dream-self hummed-he wasn't sure-and the hand became bolder, the palm sliding up firmly, over nipple, over scar, to clasp his neck.

John felt a warm exhalation against his chin, and then soft lips were meeting his own. The kiss was gentle yet confident, teasing John's lips apart, and John complied.

He couldn't remember having kissed anyone this way, not recently, not so easily, with lazy, familiar movements, a gentle prodding of glowing embers that began to spark. Full lips pulled at his, gently at first, and the fingers at his nape slid up to cradle his head, to bring them closer. The kiss became more urgent, and John moved his arm upward, away from covering his eyes to rest above his head. The shift allowed their kiss to deepen, nose along cheek, tongue against tongue.

John was considering nipping at the lips that assailed him when a deep groan rumbled above him, arousing yet alarming. The half-dream fizzled, and John's eyes flashed open.

Sherlock Holmes hovered over him, his icy eyes intense with want, his thin face leaning in for another kiss.

John bolted up to sitting in an instant, forcing Sherlock back-only Sherlock's quick reflexes saved him from being knocked off the bed. John's eyes went wide, his lips burning with shock and sensation.

Sherlock only perched on the edge of the mattress, casually expectant in his deep burgundy dressing gown. "Ah. Still cross with me, then."

_Cross? Fucking hell. A damn sight more than cross_, John thought, unconsciously rubbing at his lips. No coherent response occurred to him; his heart was racing and he was still not entirely sure he was awake.

"Fine. Regrettable, but there's no time for a leisurely apology, Watson-"

_Watson?_

"-and since you've apparently decided to express your displeasure with me by shaving off your beautiful moustache, I can see the situation is more dire than I'd imagined."

John blinked hard.

"Regardless," Sherlock said, standing abruptly, "our client will be here within the hour."

Dressing gown swirling around him, Sherlock left, John watching dumbly until the door closed with a click. Heart still thumping violently inside his chest, his fingers tightened unconsciously, and he looked down with surprise at the journal he still clutched in his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

_Note: Thanks to Armada for early beta services and Toast for going over the later version with her fine-toothed beta-comb. :)_

* * *

><p><strong><em>Chapter 2. <em>**_In_ _Which Mrs. Hudson makes an Excellent Fry-Up, A Life is Threatened, and John Watson Makes a Deduction_

John's heart beat frantically, and not just from the strangely familiar kiss he'd just shared with Sherlock Holmes. Something was wrong, spectacularly wrong. When he scanned his surroundings, everything struck the wrong chord. Though the layout was the same, this version of his bedroom was filled with unfamiliar things-a heavy duvet on the bed, covered with a pale blue and ivory damask bedspread, a collection of matching pillows tucked around him. Around the room, every nook seemed filled. An armchair, a writing desk, and a washstand crowded the room, each littered with unfamiliar accoutrements-and wholly unlike the room he had fallen asleep in.

John stood, or tried, having to first unearth himself from the bedding that surrounded him, and immediately knocked a clock and three books off the nightstand. He bent to retrieve them and promptly bumped his arse into an enormous wardrobe along the wall.

Wardrobe? There was no wardrobe in his room when he'd gone to bed, and yet there it stood, made of solid wood, intricately carved, and nearly as tall as the room itself.

His hands seemed to move of their own volition, his brain unhelpfully scrambled, and he opened the wardrobe doors. Suits hung neatly in a row, but not just any suits-old-style three-piece suits in brown, beige, and grey. On the shelf, shirts, starched and ironed into submission; in the drawers, socks, garters, braces, bow ties and cravats, gloves, a pocket watch with matching chain.

John let out a breath and frowned. "What . . . the hell."

Had he been living with anyone other than Sherlock Holmes, the genius who once filled every container in their flat with a different species of venomous spider to prove a point about a case, John might have thought he was losing his mind. He had learned to expect the unexpected, but this was certainly expanding the definition.

Before he could process any of it further, there was a quick rap at the door. It opened almost immediately and to add to the sense of the ridiculous John was experiencing, Mrs. Hudson walked in, also looking entirely wrong. Her pale hair was long and piled into an elaborate arrangement atop her head, and then there was her dress. Plum-colored and high-collared, it seemed more akin to a period costume than something she'd normally wear, from the long sleeves ending in ruffles to the double row of black buttons down the bodice. The floor-length and full bustle of it were startlingly unlike her, and John continued blinking in an effort to clear his vision.

Mrs. Hudson seemed rather shocked at what she was seeing herself. "Dr. Watson!" she squawked, knitting her brow and turning her back to him, nearly upsetting the items on the tea tray she carried.

Startled, John looked around a moment before noting his bare chest. "Oh! Erm," John answered intelligently. He grabbed the nearest garment, a sort of off-white undershirt, and pulled it on. He coughed. "Ah. Good morning."

She turned toward him again with a cautious eye, but then moved forward with purpose, setting down the fully-laden tray-complete with a vase filled with gardenias and pink roses-on top of the writing desk near the window, and set about making him a cup of tea.

"Bit of a late start today, Dr. Watson?" she asked with a hint of reproach.

He nodded, though she wasn't looking at him, and he reached into the wardrobe for a deep blue dressing gown, arranging the silky fabric over himself and tying the belt of it with a firm tug.

"And with a client arriving soon," she tutted, removing the strainer from his tea cup.

Right. A client. Sherlock had mentioned that as well. After the kissing.

She stirred a silver spoon in his tea and watched him from the corner of her eye. "Mr. Holmes shouldn't monopolize your time so."

Despite his muddled state, John still caught the innuendo in her tone. And since when did she call Sherlock 'Mr. Holmes'? He opened his mouth to argue, but she continued on.

"Although he does have some amends to make after yesterday. And I can see you've not forgiven him yet as he was having a proper sulk when I brought up his tea. I thought you might rather breakfast up here today, considering. Of course, I suspect he's mourning the loss of your lovely moustache."

Finished with the tea preparation, she looked up at him with a conspiratorial smile. "I think you look younger without it, if you don't mind my saying so, Doctor."

John fell back on his ingrained good manners and simply said, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

With a nod, she left the room, shutting the door to his room behind her.

* * *

><p>Having determined that he was indeed awake and conscious, only one other explanation presented itself. It simply had to be an experiment. An elaborate, ridiculous experiment. Though it seemed farfetched, it wouldn't be beyond Sherlock's ability or temperament to do such a thing, but the commitment involved made John marvel. Clearly his tea last night had been drugged somehow, and while he was out cold, Sherlock had arranged the room, had put Mrs. Hudson up to participating in the ruse, had-<p>

Decided to wake John with kisses.

John frowned. That part warred with his interpretation, so he amended it to fit. It hadn't been a serious kiss, of course. It had been part of the plan to disorient him.

And it had worked.

Nearly upsetting a riotous fern atop the plant stand beside the writing table, John sank into the plush desk chair, intending to work out the problem. However, the smell of a full breakfast assailed him, and he looked down to see fried eggs, beans, and black pudding before him, along with toast and tea. The little pots arranged around the plate revealed deep red jam and pale butter, and, the enticing smells seducing him completely, he got to the business of eating, certain he would need sustenance to face whatever Sherlock had planned next.

Munching on the last bite of what was perhaps the best toast he had ever had in his life, he decided. He'd play along in whatever scheme this was. Sherlock seemed determined to throw him, and so John decided not to be thrown. He'd find a way to outlast the great Sherlock Holmes, and enjoy himself in the process.

He finished his tea and went over to the wardrobe, determined. He skipped the cumbersome sock garters but accepted the need for braces when he discovered the trousers had no belt loops. He chose an ascot over the nightmare of tying a traditional bow tie, fought a bit with the placement of the stiff collar around the neck of the shirt, fiddled with getting the watch chain and fob attached, but in the end, as he looked at himself in the full-length standing mirror beside the wardrobe, he felt he had pulled off the look of a Victorian gentleman surprisingly well.

At least, he thought it was Victorian. History had never been his strongest subject, especially not the history of fashion, and it was just as likely he was dressed as Mr. Darcy for all he knew, but there wasn't time to fuss over it, as the watch attached to his waistcoat clearly declared it was nearly nine and the so-called client would be arriving soon.

Using the silver brush on the washstand, John swept his hair back so that it lay in smooth, golden waves. Thinking he might require the tale of the hound, he retrieved the little journal from the mountainous bed and, tucking it into the breast pocket of his frock coat, went downstairs to see what Sherlock had in store for him next.

* * *

><p>His confident gait faltering, John came to a halt in the sitting room and goggled. The skeleton of it was still the 221b he knew, but on the surface, everything was different. It was as though he had been transported into the past-no computers, no television, no leather and steel modernist armchair. Instead, the entire contents of the flat seemed positively antique. He noted some familiar items here and there-the skull on the mantelpiece, the violin on a table near the window, the little Persian slipper on a shelf in the corner-but, overall, the illusion was complete.<p>

John had little time to contemplate the surreal effect, however, as Sherlock was walking in with two gentlemen at his side, the three of them dressed head to toe in what he assumed was period-accurate attire.

"Ah, Watson. May I introduce Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. He was as slim and elegant as John had ever seen him, black suit perfectly tailored, his usually unruly curls now tamed so they ran in smooth waves back and away from his face, icy blue eyes glittering with the excitement of a new case. But the warm smile he directed at John, seemingly genuine despite the ruse, was what made John pause. "Gentlemen, my associate, Dr. John Watson."

Turning to face the visitors, John scrutinized what Sherlock had just said. Baskerville? Mortimer? This could only mean that yesterday's meeting with Louise Mortimer had been part of the set up; whatever the purpose behind this experiment, Sherlock really was going full bore.

Though it seemed a bit much, it wasn't the worst situation Sherlock had ever tossed him into. John acting as though nothing were amiss the day before in accepting Louise Mortimer's case on his own seemed to have rattled Sherlock enough to concoct this alternative scenario-was he hoping John would give a different answer this time? Give in to Sherlock and beg him to come along on the case? John nearly scoffed out loud. _Not bloody likely._ Vowing to wrangle the details out of Sherlock as soon as they were alone again, John turned his attention to their "clients."

Baskerville was young, with bright eyes and a neat, sandy brown mustache. His athletic build and quick smile reminded John of rugby mates he'd known in school. Dr. Mortimer was also fairly young but somewhat nervous, with brown curly hair and elaborate sideburns and an anxious way about him. John definitely preferred the Dr. Mortimer he had met the day before, and he wondered if that was part of Sherlock's game. Perhaps Sherlock thought John had only agreed to help Louise (and defy Sherlock) because she was an attractive woman?

_Ridiculous_. John reminded himself to commit to this bizarre Victorian version of the case and stepped forward. "Good morning." It occurred to him that he had no idea if he should bow or offer his hand, and ended up giving a sort of dip of his chin. He needn't have worried though, as Sherlock was already shepherding them into seats around the sitting room. John stood at one end of the fireplace and tried to affect a neutral, pleasant air, while Sherlock stood at the other end, his attention focused on their guests.

"Please, gentlemen. If the situation is as you have previously indicated, we haven't time to waste."

Sir Henry gave a nervous laugh. "Mr. Holmes, I hope it's not as dire as all that! Someone's trying to put me off, is all." His confidence wavered, though, and he looked to Sherlock earnestly. "Do you really think there's something to this? That a monster haunts my family?"

Raising his eyebrows, Sherlock waved a hand towards the anxious Mortimer. "Dr. Mortimer claims he has evidence your father's death was brought on by this 'gigantic hound'-if not by an actual animal, then by the legend of it, which contributed to his poor health and ultimate death. If the creature is purely fictional, then someone is going to great lengths to breathe life into it in order to persecute your family, Sir Henry. Your father, Sir Charles, is dead; your uncle, Roger, presumed dead in South America; you are the only Baskerville left."

Baskerville's eyes widened, and he sat up straighter in his chair. Mortimer looked Henry over and then asked, "May I relate the events of this morning, sir?"

"Please do, Doctor," he answered with a sigh, reclining in his chair once more and passing a hand over his brow. "This is all most strange."

Mortimer produced a small note from his coat pocket and handed it up to Sherlock, who took it up carefully by its edges. Moving closer to John so he might see, Sherlock unfolded the note and held it out flat between them.

Words formed from bits of cut and pasted newspaper text declared:

_As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor._

Only the word "moor" was handwritten, the print in messy block letters.

"Who would have known at which hotel you chose to stay last night?" Sherlock demanded.

"No one-we made the decision on impulse, at the very last moment," Mortimer said, eyes wide with anxiety at the thought he might have made some misstep.

Turning his head abruptly to John, Sherlock asked, "What do you think, Watson?"

Surprised to be consulted, John said the first thing that came to mind. "I think someone's being overly dramatic to make a point," he said, eyebrows rising in a look of gentle criticism.

Frowning, Sherlock stood away again. "Yes, well, let's assess the facts before theorizing, shall we?" He held the note up to his face, inspecting it from various angles. "My dear Watson, if you'll be so kind as to fetch yesterday's _Times_, I think we shall learn a great deal about our note-writer."

A glance over to the area where they normally stowed their newspapers in 221b confirmed that at least that had not changed, and John walked over to get the one Sherlock required, only stopping a moment to blink at the old-fashioned typesetting, the unfamiliar headlines. Before he could investigate it further, Sherlock took the paper from his hands and spoke.

"You'll see, gentlemen, the article on the inside page regarding free trade contains all the same words as your note here, except for 'moor'. Someone has, quite hastily, cut out the words from yesterday's _Times _with short-bladed scissors, affixed them messily to this paper with gum, and written in the word 'moor' because they hadn't the time to find it printed. Hurry? Carelessness? Or a fear of being interrupted and discovered?"

"Oh, but this is guesswork, surely," Baskerville objected amiably, and John smiled, shaking his head a little. When he looked over, Sherlock was standing straighter, his chest pressed outward as he took a breath to begin.

"Balance of probability," Sherlock corrected. "Observe that in addressing the note the pen has spluttered twice over a single word, run dry three times; personal pen and ink would hardly be in such a state, but a hotel set is rarely in any other condition. This note was therefore written in a local hotel and sent very early this morning. Note also, the handwriting is stilted and somewhat childish, but as the _Times _is read almost exclusively by the educated, it follows that the person who wrote this wished to conceal their identity-most likely, they are known to you and have been watching your movements in London this entire time. They have, perhaps, even followed you here."

As both Sir Henry and Dr. Mortimer gasped in amazement, John couldn't help smiling, even beaming when Sherlock looked over to him surreptitiously for acknowledgement.

"Brilliant!" he said.

"Elementary," said Sherlock, turning back to their guests, but John had caught the twinkle of delight in his eyes at John's praise. It was the first wholly familiar moment between them this morning, and John felt some sense of ease return to him.

"But no one has followed us," Dr. Mortimer insisted, clearly aghast Sherlock would suggest such a situation would go unnoticed by him.

"We shall soon see. I suggest you and Sir Henry return to Dartmoor immediately. Dangerous events are in the making, and you'll need someone to attend to your safety, Sir Henry; keep a trusted person with you at all times. Watson will follow on the next train."

"Won't you be coming, Mr. Holmes?" Baskerville asked, expressing John's own question.

"I'm afraid other matters require my presence in London at the time being," Sherlock said, moving towards the front door, clearly ready for the men to be on their way.

_Ah_, thought John. _Here it is_. All this just to see if John would repeat his "mistake" of thinking he could tackle a case on his own. John winked at Sherlock behind the men's backs, but Sherlock seemed not to notice.

"I was rather hoping you'd attend to the matter yourself, Mr. Holmes," Mortimer dared to say.

Sherlock stopped short, his hand pausing on the knob of the door, and he fixed Mortimer with a steely blue gaze. "If my friend would undertake it, there is no man who is better worth having at your side when you are in a tight place. No one can say so more confidently than I."

It was then that Sherlock's eyes finally met John's own, and the sincerity John saw there, had heard in Sherlock's voice, threw him into stunned silence. Yesterday, the compliment had been a sham-now, in this ridiculous context, John was certain that the words were truly meant.

Baskerville broke the tension, clapping Mortimer on the back with a laugh. "Well, I can't have better company, then! How about it, Dr. Watson?" he asked, grinning over to John.

"Erm," John stalled, forgetting nearly everything, unable to gather his thoughts until Sherlock released his gaze and looked away. "I, ah." He blinked at Baskerville. "I'd be honored."

"Then the matter is settled," Sherlock said, pulling open the door. "Take care to stay in the company of others until Watson arrives, Sir Henry, for your own sake, and discuss these events with no one."

The men agreed and hurried out down the steps. Sherlock closed the door behind them.

Inhaling deeply, John wasted no time in taking advantage of their privacy to ask his most pressing question. "Just what in _hell _is going on here?"

Sherlock sprinted towards him, and for a moment John thought he might be tackled, but Sherlock breezed past to the windows overlooking the street. He stilled, and moved the curtain just a fraction to peek outside.

"It's just as I suspected."

"What is?"

Ignoring him completely, Sherlock ran for the door.

"Sherlock! _Stop!_" John commanded. Surprisingly, Sherlock complied, turning to face John. His entire demeanor changed in an instant as he stood close and looked John directly in the eyes, his gaze filled with startling affection.

John swallowed. "I mean-" He glanced down at his shoes and looked up. "-good show and all, but don't you think we've had enough of this?"

Without hesitation, Sherlock brought his hand up to John's face, cupping his jaw in a gesture of utter tenderness that had John leaning in to the touch.

"I quite agree, my dear Watson," Sherlock answered, and John felt he could get used to being called by his last name if it were regularly accompanied by the endearment-that, and the look of devotion currently in Sherlock's blue-silver eyes.

"But there isn't time for a proper reconciliation," Sherlock explained, dropping his hand away. He reached over for a coat and scarf, thrusting them against John's chest. "The game's afoot, and we haven't a moment to spare!"

With that, Sherlock ran off, seemingly gliding down the stairs. John shook his head but followed, pulling on his coat and scarf as he trailed behind the madman. He barrelled through the open front, barely managing to slam it shut behind him, and turned towards the street.

What met his eyes simply was not possible.

Horse-drawn carriages and hansom cabs. Dozens of people who looked like they'd sprung forth from a Dickens novel.

_Cobblestones_.

John exhaled, a tremulous whisper escaping him. "_Bloody hell_."

No matter how elaborate the experiment, there was no way on earth Sherlock had _repaved London_ overnight.

And John realized the question was now not only _what _was going on, but _when_.

* * *

><p><em>Note: I plan to post a chapter a week from here on out, barring any real life interruptions!<em>


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3, In Which Adrenaline is Released, Mrs. Hudson has Wretched Timing, and a Watson is Dispatched._

Before John had a moment to contemplate further, Sherlock-if it was Sherlock-was hustling him along, slipping his arm into the crook of John's elbow.

"Step lively, Watson. We don't want to lose sight of them," Sherlock said, looking ahead in the direction of Oxford Street.

"Who?" John asked lamely, head fuzzy and heart racing.

Sherlock jutted his chin. "Our clients, obviously."

Looking up the street, John saw Baskerville and Mortimer walking about two hundred feet ahead of them. "Obviously," John mumbled, having no idea nor interest in why they were following the two men. His eyes were drawn to everything else around him, darting from the muddy street busy with horse-drawn traffic to a shop window filled with all manner of men's hats, to the shadowed figures of grimy-looking adolescents and children who hung about the alley. One of them tipped his brown newsboy cap in their direction, and John's brow knit further in bewilderment.

What was happening? Who was this man beside him who looked like Sherlock, deduced and preened like Sherlock, and yet was somehow not like Sherlock at all-appreciative, affectionate, even-and who had not yet noticed that John was not in his right place, his right time?

"There, Watson, do you see?" Sherlock asked, interrupting John's thoughts and gripping John's upper arm. John's eyes snapped to the hansom cab Sherlock was looking towards. The cab moved slowly along the faster traffic of the road, trailing a moderate distance behind where Baskerville and Mortimer walked.

"You were right," John said, smiling a bit despite the strangeness all around him.

"Let's see if we can't get a look at our devil." Excitement trilled through his voice, and John felt the familiar tug of adventure.

Their clients had paused, waiting to cross the busy street, and the cab stopped as well, lingering a short way from the intersection. Sherlock increased his pace, hurrying towards the cab, but as John looked over to it, a face appeared at its small window.

A man with shrewd eyes and a full, dark beard peered back at them, and then disappeared into the darkness once more.

"He's spotted us," John said.

Sherlock took off with a barked order of "Hurry, Watson!" just as the cab lurched into movement and pulled away from the curb.

Familiar with this, at least, John broke into a run behind Sherlock, who was now chasing the rapidly accelerating cab like a madman. Sherlock ran onto the street, another cab nearly colliding into him, its driver having to pull back on the reins hard to avoid him.

"Sorry," John hollered as he sped past, a few paces behind Sherlock. Blood pumped vigorously through his veins as he ran and dodged, adrenaline narrowing his focus to Sherlock and the cab that eluded them.

The hansom was nowhere in sight, but Sherlock continued at full speed, and when he darted suddenly to the left into an alleyway, John followed.

"Did you see him turn?" John hollered as he ran.

But Sherlock either didn't hear him or chose to ignore him, so John gave up trying to suss it out and simply stayed a few steps behind as Sherlock led them down the alley and into the next street. John skidded and wobbled as they dodged pedestrians, his feet unused to the mud and the cobbles as Sherlock nearly sailed through the sea of humans and horses. Turning sharply, Sherlock ran up to the side of a cab that had stopped at the curb. John halted behind Sherlock, who was now climbing up to accost the driver.

"Your fare, just now! Where did you leave him?" Sherlock demanded, eyes hard as steel.

The moustachioed driver frowned. "None of my business where my fares go, sir-and, pardon my sayin', not yours either."

"Now, listen, my good fellow, you've fallen into a serious predicament here, and the facts are your only way out of it. Your fare, a man with a dark beard, had you follow two men down Baker Street. Why?"

Seeing that Sherlock already knew the situation, the cabman reconsidered his stance on his fare's privacy. "Didn't say why. Only said he was a detective."

"Oh? And did this detective tell you his name?"

"That he did," said the cabman. "Said his name was Sherlock Holmes."

John's eyes went wide, and even Sherlock stayed silent a moment with shock-until a burst of laughter escaped him.

"Ah," said Sherlock when he'd recovered. "And I presume you left him at Waterloo station."

The cabman nodded, and Sherlock shook his head. "Can you describe him?"

"Dark hair, dark eyes. Quiet. Thin chap. Maybe thirty years of age. Shorter than you."

"Anything else?"

The cabman shook his head, and Sherlock frowned down to John. "It will do, for a start." He handed over a large coin to the cabman, and stepped down from the cab. "Good day!"

"Thank you, sir!" the man answered, and Sherlock turned, striding away.

John hustled to catch up.

"A cunning, bold scoundrel, Watson."

"With a sense of humor to boot," John added.

"Yes," said Sherlock, a distant look coming over his features. John knew that look well enough-the one that meant Sherlock needed to stew over an idea. If this was, indeed, his Sherlock, the next step would be for him to flop on the sofa at Baker Street and not speak to John for hours, or days, so when John felt Sherlock slide his hand over his elbow, John missed a step, his eyes focusing on their linked arms as they walked.

"I think it best we set the matter aside for now, Watson. There's nothing to be gained in speculation without facts. Since you've nearly three hours until your train, I suggest we pass the time dining at The Marion."

Sherlock's eyes focused on the street ahead of them, so he did not seem to notice John's look of shock and confusion.

Physically affectionate, in public, no less? Suggesting they take time off from the case? To _eat_?

This was not his Sherlock.

Rendered fairly speechless by this revelation, John kept quiet, following this Sherlock's lead.

_Can I even call him Sherlock?_ He glanced at the man who walked beside him, whose arm was linked with his own. Though his physical characteristics seemed identical to his Sherlock, this one's mannerisms, his speech-his regard!-were enough unlike his Sherlock that John began to catalog their differences. In his mind, he made a decision to start calling this one "Holmes," just as he was being called "Watson."

As he and Holmes made their way southward through their neighborhood, John remained mostly silent, taking in as many details as he could-the muddy cobbles, the kid selling large, fat newspapers printed in black ink only, the smell of damp earth and a sewage system that clearly was not yet fully-developed.

Holmes stopped to buy a paper (five pence!), and John gleaned the date.

1889.

Yeah. All right.

Okay.

So.

Victorian England.

With a Sherlock Holmes who was not exactly his Sherlock Holmes.

As a John Watson who was not exactly him.

The fear he'd been holding at bay flickered in that moment, trying to take hold of him. _How did I come here? How the bloody hell do I get back home?_

It would take Sherlock Holmes himself to figure it out; John hardly knew what to do. Trust this Sherlock? Tell him . . . tell him what? That somehow John had traveled back in time overnight? That he had fallen asleep in the twenty-first century and, incredibly, had woken up in the nineteenth? The truth was not to be believed, yet only the truth might entice Holmes to help John. They reached the restaurant, and even as they settled into the sumptuously upholstered chairs at a corner table, John still had not decided.

Holmes was quiet, speaking only to order his meal, and though he seemed content to remain silent, John knew better. No matter the circumstances, a Holmes' gears were always turning.

"I'm sorry, Holmes," John ventured. "I'm not myself today." He glanced up to gauge Holmes' reaction, but the man replied smoothly.

"It has been a rather singular morning. And the business is bloody, hound or no hound."

John only nodded and looked down. He'd half-hoped Holmes would have determined he was a fraud, a false Watson. Unsure whether he was relieved or disappointed, John was glad to have the distraction of their dishes being served.

Course after course appeared, and at each moment when John thought he might begin the conversation anew, the waiter returned, or a glance at Holmes showed he was deep in thought, his unfocused gaze directed over John's shoulder and out the window. John took the free time to look over his companion-the icy eyes, the long fingers, the hair that seemed ready to fight against its forced smoothness and spring into curls at any moment. The physical resemblance to Sherlock was nearly complete, from the bow-shaped lips to the easy way he sat, half-reclined, his long legs stretched straight in front of him and crossed at the ankles.

John wondered how much he must resemble the Watson that belonged with this Holmes, given that both Holmes and Mrs. Hudson had accepted him without comment, other than the lack of a moustache.

Subconsciously he rubbed his fingers over his upper lip, wondering what else separated him from Holmes' Watson. A moustache, yes, but also, apparently, a willingness to be kissed by Holmes. His thoughts drifting back to how Holmes had woken him only a few hours ago, John found himself imagining his own Sherlock hovering over him, leaning in, sliding his long fingers over John's skin.

"All right, Watson?" Holmes asked, and John nearly dropped his forkful of curried fish. "You seem a bit touched."

John attempted to control his face whilst assessing Holmes', seeing the hint of glee in those silver-blue eyes. Feeling the heat pinkening his cheeks, John knit his brow.

"It's nothing. Eat your potatoes," he replied, hoping Watson was as sassy and nagging to his Holmes as John was to Sherlock. Apparently it was so, as Holmes didn't even raise an eyebrow and proceeded to spear a chunk of roasted potato with his fork. As John watched, Holmes lifted the fork to his mouth, making a show of pulling the potato off the tines with his lips and chewing deliberately, his eyes glittering back at John throughout.

_Yeah_, John decided. _This one is just as much trouble as the other one_. More so, somehow, if the seductive look Holmes was sending across the table was any indication. Being . . . partners, or whatever, with Sherlock was challenging enough. And yet, these two had apparently added the dimension of a romantic, sexual relationship.

John could hardly imagine such a thing. Certainly, he was close to Sherlock. Had endured all manner of danger and abandonment and rudeness and forgiven him everything out of friendship, out of devotion, out of . . .

Love.

John could admit that much to himself. He'd always been an all or nothing sort when it came to friendships, relationships, and Sherlock was definitely in the "all" category. There was no denying the man held his heart in his hands. But a sexual relationship! That was a line they hadn't crossed, not truly. The incident after the pool didn't count, both of them keyed up on adrenaline, drunk on whiskey, interrupted by Mrs. Hudson before anything (much) had really happened anyway.

John pulled his gaze away from Holmes, clearing his throat and reaching for his drink. This was no time for reminiscing; he needed to find a way back to the present-_his_ present-and his Sherlock, and he wasn't sure yet if reading this madman in was going to help him get back to his own.

His face composed once more, John set down his glass and looked up. "So, tell me, Holmes. What do you do when you can't make sense of what you observe?"

Holmes waved a lazy hand at him. "You know my methods, Watson."

John nodded. "Gather more data, then."

"Precisely."

* * *

><p>When John stepped into the flat, he found his trunk in the sitting room, already packed for the journey to Baskerville Hall. Holmes must have sent word to Mrs. Hudson, and John was doubly grateful not to have to discern on his own what attire would be expected at a country manor in the late 19th century.<p>

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he said as she fluttered about, tucking something wrapped in paper into his gripsack and setting it atop the trunk.

"Oh, nonsense. There's a little something for the train, Doctor," she said, patting the gripsack, and then she was hustling out their door, saying over her shoulder as she went, "The cab will be here soon, gentlemen!"

John sent his thanks down the stairs behind her, and when he turned back into the room, Holmes was standing near the tall window, his back to John as he peered out onto Baker Street below. He'd seen that pensive pose more than once, and he took a few steps towards Holmes, stopping just behind him.

"What is it?" he asked, voice soft.

"The rascal knew our number, knew Baskerville had consulted us, knew enough to leave his audacious message with the cabman. He's a cunning foe, and so far he has bested us."

John smiled and huffed out a dismissive breath. "We've beaten smarter ones."

Turning slowly to face John, Holmes let a sad smile curl his lips. "That's true enough, Watson." His hand reached out, smoothing the ascot at John's throat, fingers sliding down to rest at the top edge of his waistcoat. Holmes' low voice softened and rumbled, and John felt the sound wrap around him, pulling him in as Holmes continued. "But it's an ugly business, and I shall be very glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker Street once more."

Unused to such openly expressed regard, John looked up sharply, failing to keep the astonishment from his features. Holmes' gaze held his, and John felt himself drawn forward, his own eyes focused on Holmes' own, so much like Sherlock's, down to the spot of brown in his iris amid the ocean of glacier blue and sea green. John swallowed, and his voice came rougher than he expected. "You could come with me."

The sad smile widened, and for a moment John thought Holmes would kiss him again, and he found himself leaning in, his gaze riveted to the pink, full lips that seemed to reach eagerly for his own.

"Ooh-ooh," called Mrs. Hudson from the bottom of the stairs, breaking the mood, and John shook his head.

_Damn that woman's timing_, he thought. _In either era_.

Holmes dropped his hand and straightened his spine, effectively placing distance between them, and John cleared his throat.

"I wish you better luck in Dartmoor. Keep me informed," Holmes said, voice as stiff as his posture, and John wondered what had happened. Had he mis-stepped? Had Holmes expected some reaction he'd failed to produce?

If John had to guess, Holmes was offended John hadn't kissed him; perhaps he'd expected John to forgive him for whatever argument they'd apparently had, the one Holmes had referenced that morning. Not having received it, Holmes now resorted to the very Sherlockian posture of disdainful pouting.

Yeah. That would make sense. John smiled thinly at the thought that sulking was inherent to all Sherlocks, and looked into Holmes' bright eyes. Unsure of whether he wished to genuinely reassure Holmes or to just maintain the fiction of being Watson, John rushed forward, stepping up to capture Holmes' lips with his own for one flashing moment.

"It's fine," John said. He stepped away to grasp the handles of the gripsack. When he reached the doorway he turned back to face Holmes. "It's all fine."

He left Holmes standing by the window, one enigmatic eyebrow raised and the color high across his cheeks.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4. In Which All This Has Happened Before, The Butler Did Everything, and Creepy Moor is Creepy. _

John settled himself in his seat without a moment to spare-the train began to move immediately, as though it had been waiting on him to make its departure. Attempting not to stand out as an anachronism, John only nodded at the only other passenger in the compartment, a portly, brown-skinned older gentleman with an impressive handlebar moustache. Rubbing at his own upper lip again, John thought about the contradictory yet accurate phrasing of "acting natural", and he turned his gaze to the view outside the window.

From his vantage point, London sprawled out all around him, the city darker and dingier than in his day, pollution hovering in a brown-grey cloud above it. He leaned back, his mind whirring as he watched the train leave London behind. The scenery transformed into the green countryside sooner than he expected, another reminder that he was no longer in the England that he knew. There had to be a way out of this pickle he was in, but he was damned if he knew what it was. As both Sherlock and Holmes would advise, he needed more data, but the only resource he had was back in London.

_Except_.

The sudden memory causing him to sit up with more violence than was appreciated by his traveling companion, John thrust his hands into the various pockets of his frock coat, scrabbling until his fingers closed around the object of his search-the journal. It contained the legend of the Baskerville curse; what else might it have between its worn leather covers?

He flipped to the first page.

_The reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D., late of the Army Medical Department_

His breath stalling in his throat, John stared at the name-_his_ name-written on the flyleaf. His wide eyes moved to the next page.

_In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out. _

It simply wasn't possible.

_"Poor devil!" Stamford said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my misfortunes. "What are you up to now?"_

_"Looking for lodgings." I answered. _

_"That's a strange thing," remarked my companion; "you are the second man to-day that has used that expression to me."_

_"And who was the first?" I asked._

Not. Possible.

And yet here it was, written in ink in the book before him.

_As Holmes spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes wore the same far-away expression which I have already remarked upon. Finally, he sniffed the dead man's lips, and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots._

_"There is nothing new under the sun," said Holmes. "It has all been done before."_

"Bloody hell," John muttered, earning a look of reproach from his compartment-mate, but he hardly noticed, too occupied with trying to comprehend what he was reading. A Watson, meeting a Holmes, living and working with a Holmes, in almost the exact way that John had with Sherlock-but over a hundred years before. Was this the past he was trapped in, then? Or some alternate dimension of time, a different reality in which they were still destined to meet? And how the hell did he end up here?

* * *

><p>Consumed with the need to know the answers to these questions, John spent the rest of his journey poring over the pages of the journal. He read more of his-no, Watson's-first case with Holmes, and then the many adventures they'd been on, some of them so familiar it was as though John were reading a memoir of his own life with Sherlock. By the time the train arrived in Grimpen, he had reached the last entry, his eyes skimming over the tale of the hound that he'd read the night before-back when he was in his own bed, his own place and time. Had that only been hours ago? He felt like he'd led another lifetime in the interim.<p>

The last written page described Holmes and Watson's plan to meet with Baskerville and Mortimer the next morning; the remainder of the journal was blank, almost as though it expected John to put pen to paper and carry on what his-ancestor? predecessor?-had begun.

The train was slowing, signalling their arrival at the station, and his compartment-mate was folding away his newspaper and rising to gather his things. John reluctantly closed the journal and tucked it back into the breast pocket of his coat, standing and wondering what would happen now that he'd managed to get himself separated from the one person who might believe him.

Once on the platform, John discovered his trunk already unloaded. Beside it stood a short and composed-looking dark-skinned man wearing a black suit, black tie, and white gloves. As John came towards him, the man dipped his chin in acknowledgement.

"Hello," John said, giving a cautious grin. The man seemed only a bit older than John, his closely-cropped hair an even mixture of black and white.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Watson. Sir Henry sent me," the man answered, his voice soft but clear.

"Oh, wonderful," John said, and he reached out his hand. "Please call me John."

The older man looked up at him with careful surprise.

"Yes, sir," he answered, and John could tell from the man's tone of voice that he would do no such thing.

"And your name?"

"Barrymore, sir."

"Right. Good," John said, dropping his hand, and looking all around for a distraction to dispel the awkwardness. John had no idea what this man's position might be-driver? footman?-and only knew that he was giving himself away as an outsider with every action.

Luckily, Barrymore took up the slack, efficiently instructing the porter where to take the trunk and guiding John to the waiting carriage. It was of open design, with four wheels and a matched pair of black mares to pull it, and John climbed into the back as the trunk was secured.

Barrymore hopped, quick and elegant, into the seat next to the driver-a hunched old man who looked John over with suspicion and then grunted-and they were off.

The sun hung low in the sky, and the amber light shone weakly along their path as the carriage bumped its way down the moor. The terrain around them seemed both beautiful and desolate, the scrubby heather dotted with rocky outcroppings that took on strange shapes in the dying light. Feeling a chill run through him that had nothing to do with the weather, John was glad when they passed through an iron gate, and yew trees began to line the road, signalling that they were nearing the hall.

However, once the great house came into view, it was no comfort. The building was huge, grey, and imposing, silhouetted against the sunset like a dark, lurking mass. The bleakness took on a tinge of the gothic when John saw the mostly-leafless vines of ivy clawing up the edges of the hall like black, skeletal fingers.

"Fantastic." John hoped Barrymore hadn't perceived his sarcasm, but knowing what little he did of the man so far, it was unlikely.

* * *

><p>Henry had greeted John at the door and introduced him to Mrs. Barrymore, the housekeeper, a nervous-looking, roundly-shaped woman who held her hands in front of herself as though she feared they might wring themselves if she let them. She was visibly relieved to see her husband, her light brown face brightening once he was at her side. Henry seemed oblivious to his servants' moods, focused more on sending off Mortimer-who had stayed with him, as Holmes instructed, until John's arrival-and welcoming John. Henry insisted on the full tour before dinner, and kept up a lively chatter as they wandered through the absolutely dismal place. Though Baskerville Hall may once have been grand, Henry's father had allowed the majority of the rooms to fall into disuse, only requiring a very small portion of the house for himself. The abandoned sections reminded John of ghost stories, all tall gray walls with portraits that seemed to watch him as he walked through.<p>

"It's a bit . . . grim," John said, unable to refrain from commenting on the moor in general and the manor in particular.

With a great exhalation of relief, Henry nodded. "Yes, Dr. Watson, I quite agree! It's no wonder my father was so skittish, surrounded by all this. One could go quite mad here."

John glanced over at his host, noting his furrowed brow and pursed lips. "And how long have you been here at Baskerville Hall?"

"Only a few days before Mortimer and I resolved to see you and Mr. Holmes," he answered. "It was the news of Selden's escape that did it."

"I'm sorry?" John said, hoping the news wasn't something he should already know.

His heart sank as Henry raised a dubious eyebrow at him. "The Notting Hill murderer! Escaped from Princetown not one week ago! Surely it made the London papers."

"Certainly! Forgive me-I thought you said 'seldom'," John covered lamely. Henry gave him an odd look but soon shook it off and continued.

"Ah. Well, that bit of news, along with my father's death, this business with the hound . . . it's enough to make me raze that yew alley and plant lamp posts instead, perhaps find a wife who can brighten up this miserable tomb."

_Good luck with that_, thought John, pitying the future Mrs. Baskerville to be tasked with such a job. Nodding vaguely and hoping to avoid any more conversational missteps, John followed fairly silently the rest of the way.

The tour complete, Henry returned to the main hall, finally leading John up to his room, where he was inordinately relieved to see that someone had laid out a complete outfit for him. Certainly, it had been Barrymore. The full evening attire of white tie and black suit (including a jacket with tails, no less) reminded John of his military dress uniform, only with seventeen more accessories involved. He descended the stairs to find Barrymore waiting with cocktails, and proceeded to spend the next two and half hours experiencing "dinner"-a multi-course affair nearly obscene in its variety and amount from soup to nuts. By the time he bade his host goodnight and climbed the stairs to his room, John was exhausted.

Finally, in a simple pair of sleep trousers and a nightshirt, he collapsed into the chair at the writing desk.

Unable to settle his thoughts, he reached for the journal. After fiddling with the pen and ink set on the desk for fifteen unproductive minutes, he rummaged through the room for a pencil. Though Mrs. Hudson had been most thoughtful in the packing of his trunk-indeed, he found a revolver neatly wrapped in a tea towel-he could not locate the little silver pencil. He could have sworn he'd tucked it inside the journal back at 221b, but it was nowhere to be found. And though he had no doubt he could summon Barrymore with the bell pull near the bed and have a pencil in no time, the idea of asking Barrymore for yet one more thing this evening was abhorrent, as the man and his wife clearly did the work of five people between them already.

In a stroke of luck he found a plain wooden pencil in the nightstand near the bed, and, thus armed, he sat down again to write, though he knew not what or for whom until the words began to tumble from him.

_What I know:_

_-It is 1889._

_-I'm in England. Dartmoor._

_-I'm on a case._

_-For Sherlock Holmes. _

_-Holmes is not my Sherlock but he's very similar. _

_-Both are exceedingly clever, both consulting detectives, both show-offs. _

_-Holmes seems older than you. Kinder. _

_-Holmes is more appreciative. Affectionate, even. _

_-You don't worry so much (at all, really) about my need to eat or sleep. _

_-You don't tell me "I want you back home safe." _

_-Or link arms with me in the street. _

_-Or kiss me. _

_So. Yeah. That's different. _

_Too different. I'm sitting around having three-hour dinners and chatting about the countryside when what I should do is go right back to London, back to Holmes, and just tell him what's happened. He's bound to figure it out soon; if he's truly anything like you, he's already sensed that something is more than a little off. But he's also the most likely person to find a way out of this mess. I should have told him, first thing. But I._

_I thought he was you._

_Just for a while. _

_I thought it was some kind of elaborate experiment, because, honestly, what else was I supposed to think? Certainly time travel was not the first conclusion I drew._

_But now I'm stuck here, and I'm not even in London-I'm out on the bloody moor chasing some phantom dog and trying to solve two mysteries on my own._

_Which I know, is what I threatened to do last night, back at home, in the present. And I meant it. I fully intended to go on the morning train and take my best shot._

_Here's the thing. _

_I don't actually _want _to solve puzzles without _you_. _

Allowing himself a moment of melancholy, John underlined the last word and stared at it until he felt his eyes burn. He sniffed and dropped the pencil, shutting the book with a thwap, and blinked.

Looking to shake the despair that he felt creeping over him, he stood and walked over to the window, drawing away the curtain to gaze outside. The moon was high and full, casting its blue light over the landscape. The window faced the front of the hall, the wide grassy space below lying flat before the entrance like a dewy carpet. Beyond the lawn lay the alley of yew trees, flanked on each side by the rolling moor, its curves broken here and there by constellations of rock. It was deathly silent, the quiet night so unlike the constant hum and clatter of London that he found himself remembering nights in the desert, the rare moment of calm when he could turn his gaze upward and see a million stars glittering in the inky night. He looked out along the eerie moor and was surprised to find himself missing Afghanistan, if only because its silence was familiar, known.

A sound pierced the quiet in that moment, pulling John back into the present-or his current present-once more. He had initially thought it was imagined, his fears getting the better of him in his moment of loneliness, but then the sound came again, a wretched, amplified wailing.

Without hesitation, John grabbed a candle and the revolver. Barefoot and silent, he crept over to the door to his room and opened it a crack. Peering into the hallway, he saw Henry doing the same across the way.

"You heard it too?" Henry asked in a raised whisper, and John refrained from voicing the very Holmesian reply that dangled on his tongue. _Obviously_. Instead, he nodded, and stepped out into the hall, indicating that Henry should get in step behind him.

The young baronet did as he was instructed, and soon they were padding down the hall towards the central staircase. John stopped to listen, and Henry bumped into him from behind, nearly upsetting a marble bust of Tennyson in the process.

It occurred to John that Henry Baskerville did not have much experience with adventuring.

While John was contemplating telling Henry to go back to his room, a shuffling noise reached his ears. He handed the candle to Henry and moved forward towards the sound coming from one of the rooms further down the hall, staying low, weapon held straight out before him.

The revolver felt unfamiliar in his hands, and though he figured it would do the job, he missed the Sig, the feel of the grip in his palm, the way his fingers curled around it like a natural extension of his hand.

The rustling came again, and John's head whipped around towards the source of the sound. One of the empty bedrooms. The door was slightly ajar, and a thin line of light spilled into the dark hallway.

John inhaled, then kicked at the door. As it swung open, he entered. "Who's there?" he demanded, gun trained on the source of light.

Mrs. Barrymore screamed and promptly dropped her lantern.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Chapter 5. _**_In Which A Secret is Revealed, A Baronet is Benched, and The Hunters Become the Hunted._

The scent of kerosene filled the dark room, and John could hear the woman taking ragged breaths. Using the candle he held, Henry lit the lamps near the door and the bedroom was filled with soft, yellow light.

John lowered his gun. "Mrs. Barrymore?"

She quivered in fear, and John set the revolver down on the side table near the door. He approached her slowly. "Are you all right, Mrs. Barrymore?"

Still shaking, she attempted to gather herself. "You gave me quite a fright you did, sir, if you don't mind my saying," she said, offering a weak smile though her voice wavered. Her dark brown eyes glanced out the window, and something she saw there made her pause.

"Do you see something?" Henry asked, his own voice becoming high and thready. "Do you see the hound?"

John frowned at the lack of logic being displayed by his host. "It's unlikely, even with the full moon, that we could see anything distinct against the mist of the moor."

Making his way towards where Mrs. Barrymore stood, Henry peered out the window as well. A gasp escaped him, and he pointed outside.

"A light!" he cried, and John ran over to look, hunching around the others to peer out the glass.

A dim but discernible glow winked in the distance through the fog, perhaps a mile from the house, the glow of a lantern very much like the one Mrs. Barrymore had let crash to the floor. John stood up straight and, turning to the distraught woman, fixed his gaze on her.

"Perhaps you'd better tell us what's going on."

"I know I'd like to know, sir," came a voice from the hall, and three pairs of eyes turned to see Mr. Barrymore in the doorway.

"Oh, George!" Mrs. Barrymore exclaimed. A shudder ran through her and she swayed a bit, and Henry reached out to support her, Mr. Barrymore rushing to her side as well. Arm around his wife's waist, Barrymore guided her over to the divan nearby. She seemed to collapse, and Barrymore looked up to John.

"Doctor?" he said, his voice calm but his eyes communicating his growing concern.

"Henry, if you could fetch Mrs. Barrymore some water," John said, coming over to the couple. Henry seemed frozen in his tracks, and John was sure he'd managed to break yet another societal rule about who was supposed to be fetching things for whom, but he couldn't have cared less at that moment. He broke out his captain's voice. "And a blanket as well, before she goes into shock."

Standing up straighter, Henry said, "Yes, of course!" and scuttled away, candle still in hand.

Squatting to be at her eye level, John switched personas smoothly, his voice calm and kind.

"What's your name? Can you tell me?"

She answered through her shaky breaths. "Maggie. Barrymore."

"And who's this gentleman here to my left?"

"That there's George, my husband."

"Good. Very good. And what year is it?"

"1889."

John closed his eyes for a moment and stifled a miserable laugh. "Yes. Right." He nodded at her. "Good. Can you tell me what you saw outside?"

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before answering. "I saw . . . my brother."

Barrymore said nothing, but John could see his tightening frame, the tension shooting through him. There was a lot more to this than either of them were saying.

"You'd best tell me all of it, Mrs. Barrymore, while Sir Henry's still out of the room. I promise I'll keep it in confidence if I can."

She looked to her husband first, and then nodded to John. "He's my half-brother. We grew up together even though we had different mothers. We got on, but he's always been a bit wrong in the head, a dangerous sort. I tell you, God forgive me, I was glad to be rid of him once I was married and gone. But now he's found me, and says he won't leave me be, that I owe him, seeing as we're family-"

There was a clatter in the hall that sounded like Henry tripping over the plant stand near the staircase.

"Quickly, Maggie," Barrymore urged.

"He's hiding on the moor, in the old stone huts out there, and he signals me for food at night. That's why I had the lantern." She took another fortifying breath. "It's Selden. My brother is Albert Selden," she sobbed miserably.

"The escaped murderer?" John asked, dipping his chin and looking up at her with wide eyes. Good God but this was getting ridiculous.

Nodding, the woman looked directly into John's eyes, her own filled with tears. "How can I be rid of him? He'll cost me everything, our place here, our lives, even. I wouldn't put it past him!"

Barrymore leaned forward and clasped his wife's hands in his own. "I'll get to him, Maggie. He'll go straight back to Princetown or straight to hell."

A murderer running loose was only going to complicate things, John decided, and he hoped Barrymore would accept his coming along. "I'd like to help," he said, "If you'll have me."

Barrymore considered, and John thought for certain a refusal was coming, but the man seemed to change his mind at the last moment. "Your assistance would be most welcome, Doctor Watson."

"Right. Good. Play along then, and we'll go after him."

Juggling the lit candle, a goblet of water, a blanket, and, inexplicably, a fan, Henry came back into the room.

"Here we are!" he said in a loud voice from behind the mountainous blanket.

"Well done, Henry," John praised, grasping the wobbling goblet and handing it to Mrs. Barrymore, then taking the blanket and giving it over to her husband, who went about settling it around her shoulders.

John stepped close and fixed Henry with as serious a gaze as he could muster. "It's the hound, Henry."

The color draining from his face, Henry repeated, "The hound?"

"Someone's out there with it, and we've got to find out who."

"_We_?" Henry asked, as though terrified John was about to ask him to go out and hunt the thing.

"Not you!" John lowered his voice and placed a hand on Henry's shoulder. "It's too dangerous-you're the _target_! I need you to stay here, and keep an eye on Mrs. Barrymore. She's had quite a fright."

"Oh, yes," Henry agreed quickly. "Yes, of course."

"Barrymore and I will go."

"Good man, yes, both of you." His voice rose. "I'll hold the fort."

John and Barrymore took their leave, and after a short detour to his room for a coat and shoes, John rejoined the butler downstairs. He reached the landing, checking the chambers of his revolver, and Barrymore fell in step on his left, handing him a cardboard box of ammunition without a word as they walked in stride toward the front doors.

"Have you got something?" John asked. "A revolver? A fire poker? Anything?"

"Yes, sir," Barrymore answered, pulling out a rifle from beneath his long overcoat. Though old-fashioned to John's eyes, it still looked like it could take out anything that came within a hundred yards of it. "A . . . souvenir, from my time in the service."

John nodded. "Yeah. That'll do."

They pushed through the doors together, and stepped out into the misty, moonlit night.

* * *

><p>What John wouldn't give for a police helicopter right about now. They'd started down the yew-lined driveway, attempting to isolate where Selden had signaled from, but the wide open gate on the north side of the drive meant that the man could have easily hidden anywhere upon the moor-which should have been called 'the murk' in John's opinion, as he soon found out that one wrong step could have a man stuck in squelching mud and muck. It was only because there were two of them that they'd managed to avoid being pulled down into the mire-pits that dotted the moor like landmines.<p>

Their kerosene lanterns, while helpful for avoiding mire-pits, were giving away their location like a lighthouse on a cliff, and John despaired of getting back safely to the house, much less finding Selden, who clearly knew the terrain better than they did. They chanced across one of the ancient, thatched-roof huts, but when they peered inside, the stone hearth was cold and empty, and it seemed it had been uninhabited for a very long time.

"Shame, really," John said, kicking at an old, hole-filled cauldron. "I could do with a nice hot cuppa."

Barrymore surprised him by actually smiling. "Yes, sir."

John began to smile in return, but their moment of camaraderie was broken by the heart-stopping howl that reached their ears.

"That sounded rather close," John said.

"Yes, sir," Barrymore said. Though his voice was calm, his brown eyes darted over to the doorway of the hut with alarm.

Snuffling noises nearby caused them both to tense up, and John leveled his revolver at the doorway. Tense moments passed as they waited, John feeling the sweat beading along his temple. Unhelpfully vivid images of the hound swam in his mind, depicting a gigantic creature with glowing red eyes and dripping jowls, hunched over the torn throat of Hugo Baskerville.

The animal's cry came again, further away this time-but only just.

"Barrymore," John began, lowering his gun a fraction.

"Yes, sir." Barrymore's eyes stayed fixed on the doorway.

"If you're amenable, I suggest we get back to the house and hunt this thing-and Selden-by daylight."

Barrymore nodded once, and John could see the relief bloom across his features.

Guns at the ready, they left the little hut behind, attempting to go back the way they had come. The moonlight, diffused by the mists, gave everything an unearthly glow-and disguised their path-so that they spent as much time going back as forth.

They'd made it about halfway back to the gate when the rustling began.

Never one to ignore his instincts, John paid attention to the prickle of fear that raised the hairs along his nape and his awareness heightened, his body attuned to Barrymore's position in front of him, the dark shapes above him to the right, the sounds of the moor all around him that had seemed to go silent.

When the low, rattling growl came, his reaction was immediate.

Turning around swiftly, John fired a shot into the dark, aiming for where the sound had come from, but no yelp came to signal that he'd hit his mark. He felt Barrymore come up to his side and then heard the terrible creature growl again-more dragon than dog-and the crack and rustle of something running over twigs and through the underbrush.

There was no time to be cautious. John lowered his weapon and looked over to Barrymore.

"Run!"

The sounds intensified behind them as both men turned and ran, lanterns before them in a desperate attempt to see the path. The turns were nearly imperceptible, and at some point John went right when Barrymore went left and they could no longer see each other.

"Dr. Watson!" Barrymore hollered.

"Head for the house!" John answered across the mist. Hearing no reply, John was left to hope Barrymore had heard him, though it meant they'd both potentially revealed themselves, to Selden, to the hound-and to whoever else might be after them in this godforsaken place.

Lowering the wick in his lantern to the minimum, John made his way slowly, quietly through the murk, following the gentle upward slope of the hill. A tree seemed to appear out of the mist, and John headed for it, its wide trunk and thick branches offering a comforting solidity amid the mire and the fog. He clambered up onto the lowest branch, a good six feet above the ground, and set his back against the trunk. Relatively safe for the moment in his perch, John listened, but no unnatural sounds reached his ears as he crouched in the darkness. To the west stood the house, he knew, but he couldn't see it; even though the crest of the hill-only about fifty yards away-was low overall, it was augmented at its summit by a rocky outcropping that blocked his view. South of him was the yew alley, probably not even that far, but still obscured. North, nothing but seemingly endless moor, dotted, as he had learned first hand, with mire-pits and stone huts. To the east, the first grey light of dawn began to eke its way through, and John allowed a modicum of relief to enter his bones. He relaxed a fraction against the broad, craggy trunk of the tree, knowing that in about an hour it would be light enough to navigate safely back to Baskerville Hall.

He should have known better than to let down his guard.

Turning back to look west, the sight that met John's eyes made his heart pound and his shoes slip against the branch: the shadowy figure of a man stood outlined upon the rocks. As John watched, the figure turned its head slowly, scanning the moor around him.

John put out his lantern and attempted to calm his breathing, but a ragged gasp escaped him when the man's head turned suddenly towards him, as though he had spotted John through the shadows and the mist. Holding on to the trunk with one hand, John aimed his revolver with the other, training his sights on the man upon the tor.

The figure remained unnaturally still, and John waited with suspended breath, unsure if the man could actually see him or not. The dawning light was still very weak, and the tree made for good cover to obscure his shape. Since the man made no effort to either charge or flee, John took the moment to observe him. Tall. Unafraid. Big, though the outline of his coat and the angle John viewed him from could be causing him to look larger than he was. The details were impossible to discern in the near-dark, but that didn't keep John from squinting his eyes and trying.

And in that moment of squinting, the man disappeared. John looked, listened, but it was as though the figure had simply vanished, a dark apparition that had shimmered away into nothingness. Feeling the adrenaline spiking through him, John blinked hard and willed himself to focus: _stay alert, Watson, watch for dawn, don't fall out of the damn tree_.

After a good twenty minutes of hypervigilance, John decided the light was good enough to descend the haven of the tree. Having heard nothing out of the ordinary, he climbed down and began picking his way back to the gate, grateful to have his feet upon the solid ground of the driveway once more. As he walked back to the house, his thoughts swirled, his mind full of questions-was Barrymore all right? Were Selden and the hound somehow connected? Who was the man upon the tor?-but with no answers forthcoming, he felt the old tug of despair pulling at his heart. He was no closer to solving any of the mysteries he'd been confronted with. He arrived at the door disheartened, hungry, and chilled to the bone.

The door opened before he had even lifted his hand to knock, and his mood lightened to see Barrymore there, looking as spotless and competent as ever.

"Oh, thank God you're all right," John said, smiling even as his teeth gave to chattering.

"Thank you, sir. And the same to you," Barrymore answered warmly, and John stepped into the house.

"I saw a man out there, just an outline," John began as Barrymore closed the door behind him. "Is Selden tall, a big man?"

"Not big, sir," said Barrymore, frowning as he placed a blanket over John's shoulders. "He's about Sir Henry's height, though."

"Well, it was hard to see clearly, the damn mist." _And the fear_, thought John. That didn't help.

"Yes, sir."

John noticed that he was being gently shepherded towards the staircase.

"There's a fire laid in your room, sir, and breakfast will be served in an hour."

Gratitude flooded John's heart, and he nearly hugged the man.

"Barrymore, there is a place in heaven for you. I'm certain of it."

For a moment amusement flickered over Barrymore's face, but then John gave a violent sneeze, and Barrymore placed his hands firmly on John's shoulders, propelling him upstairs.

* * *

><p>A change of clothes brought some immediate relief, but John still shivered. The Barrymores had thought of everything, of course. A full pot of hot tea was set on a tray upon the writing desk, and the fire crackled invitingly before the armchair in his room. Since he still had some time before breakfast, John fixed himself a cuppa and grabbed the journal, intent on reviewing the facts of the case-or cases, really-such as they were.<p>

He didn't mind burning his tongue a bit on the tea, grateful for the heat. Setting the cup on the side table near the chair, he reached for the journal, recalling the sad little entry he'd made the night before-comparing Holmes and Sherlock, listing the ways Holmes showed his affection, openly missing his own Sherlock. He recalled the last line he had written, and how it felt even more true at this moment: _I don't actually _want _to solve puzzles without _you.

He opened up the journal to the page where he'd left off and his heart nearly stopped.

Someone had written a line right under where he had finished the night before. There, in tidy printed script, was written one question:

**_He _****kissed ****_you?_**

x-x-x

_Note: Buckets of thanks and little pink and red hearts to i_ship_an_armada and destinationtoast for their betawork._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6. **_In Which John Communicates With The Other Side, Priorities Are Exposed, and Siblings Don't Get On. _

* * *

><p><strong>He <strong>**_kissed _****you?**

John stared at the words, but any meaning eluded him as his mind swirled with questions. Did someone enter his room, read the journal, and then . . . _leave a comment_?

It didn't make any sense, but as that was really par for the course lately, John pressed on. Clearly someone had taken advantage of John having left his room the night before-perhaps they had sneaked in while John was down the hall, tending to Mrs. Barrymore? But what possible motive could there be to writing that particular comment and then leaving the journal so that John would definitely see it?

Confronted with yet another mystery, John frowned and began to write.

_You know, it's a bit much really. Laying it on a bit thick, here, universe. I think either Holmes would say there are too many variables in this increasingly ridiculous situation. Not enough to have time travel and identity confusion-we need a bloody hellhound, AND an escaped murderer, and now, a busybody who pokes their nose into other people's business and out of that entire crazy mess decides the burning question they need to leave is 'he kissed you?', like a jealous teenager. Or a pearl-clutching old lady. Can't decide which. Need more data._

As John looked down at his own writing, somehow, impossibly, words began forming on the page, black ink sinking into the paper as the letters appeared.

**If you've quite finished, we've got work to do, John. **

Someone was writing back to him.

John's eyes went wide and he sat up straight, body suddenly on alert. He ran his fingers over the paper, turned the page, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No. Just ordinary paper. Ordinary ink. Ordinary words. That were magically appearing before his eyes.

Well. In for a penny.

_WHO IS THIS?, _he wrote firmly, transmitting his captain's tone through the graphite.

The alien words came again, flowing smoothly onto the page. **It's me. **

Feeling completely outside of himself, John replied. _Not actually informative_.

**I am Sherlock Holmes. ****_The _****Sherlock Holmes. Or, rather, ****_your _****Sherlock Holmes. Of 2012. **

Simply not possible._ I think I'm hallucinating._

**You aren't.**

Not an entirely persuasive argument in John's opinion. However. Since so many impossible things had already occurred-

_Prove it._

**I can't prove that you're not hallucinating-it's a completely subjective experience which feels real to you and so there is no disproving it. **

_I meant, prove that you're . . . my Sherlock. _

**Oh. **

**The password to your laptop is Fusiliers5. You keep extra ammunition for the Sig in the bottom drawer of your dresser under a truly hideous orange jumper even you would never wear. Your favorite mug for coffee is the black and white striped one and your favorite mug for tea is the RAMC one but I haven't deduced why yet and that bothers me.**

John's right hand flew up to his face, as his left clutched at the journal. He turned his head up and closed his eyes, overcome for a moment, sniffing mightily against the tide of joy that rushed through him. He looked back down through wet eyes, his gaze riveting itself to the journal, which had suddenly become the most precious thing in his tangled life, and he let his fingers trail over the strong, black ink on the page.

_Oh my God. SHERLOCK?_

**Also, apparently, you've trapped yourself in the past, with Past Me, and Past You is here with me instead and, though initially interesting, the novelty has worn off and the situation is now entirely unacceptable. **

_Oh my God, Sherlock. There's so much I need to tell you, to ask you! How did I get here? And how are you able to write to me? How is Past Me with you? Has he been able to communicate with his Holmes? Do you know what's happening? How do I get back home?_

**John. Isolate the most important question.**

There was only one that mattered. _How do I get back to you?_

**I don't know. Yet. If my hypothesis is correct, it's something to do with the items Dr. Mortimer left here for us to peruse.**

_Yes, the journal! There was an old leather journal in the envelope; it belonged to Watson. That's what I'm writing in. _

**I surmised as much. Just as you are seeing my words in his journal, I am seeing your words on your "journal."**

_I don't have a journal._

**Your blog, John. **

_Bloody hell. Really?_

**It's showing up as a private post. I haven't enough data, but I believe that if Past You would deign to post something onto your blog, we could . . . effect a transfer.**

_So, do it!_

**Past You is uncooperative.**

Uncooperative? Well, it didn't take a genius to figure out why a Watson might be stubborn with a Holmes.

_Sherlock. What did you do? _

**I didn't do anything! The man has no interest in returning to the past. **

John swallowed around the panic that rose in his throat, recalling that Holmes and Watson had quarrelled over something-perhaps this was Watson's way of making Holmes sweat a bit. _What do you mean? _John wrote.

**He is fascinated by the present, fascinated by me, fascinated by the taps running hot and cold water. Honestly, it's exhausting. The only thing he doesn't want to talk about is Past Me.**

_Fascinated by __you__, is he?_

**Well. He is ****_you_****, after all.**

_Not really, no. Holmes isn't you. He's like you, sure, but he's not you._

**As you enumerated. **

_Are you . . . do you have questions?_

**Thousands, but unlike you, I can prioritize. What's the situation now?**

John forced his brain to focus and spent five minutes summing up what had been going on in the last twenty-four hours. The narrative looked even more ridiculous to him written out-a timeline of absurdity, one unbelievable bullet point after another. Sherlock, for his part, only interrupted twice, and soon John reached the present-or _his _present, such as it was.

_I'm in my room in Baskerville Hall. Breakfast soon, and then out to hunt again, without Barrymore, probably, as someone needs to stay and guard the house, and Henry is surprisingly useless in that regard. _

**Where's Holmes?**

_London._

**London!**

_He said he had a pressing case to deal with. Imagine that. _

**Well. If he's anything like me, he's lying. I'd wager he wanted to do some investigating of his own rather than recklessly wave a gun about in the fog without any data.**

_Are you __really__ calling __me__ 'reckless'?_

**You're the one who got yourself transported 123 years into the past. **

_Yes, I suppose that was rather careless of me. Can you fix it? You and that marvelously clever brain of yours?_

**Working on it.**

_Anything I can do on this end?_

**Keep the journal with you. And don't die.**

John rolled his eyes. _Oh, good. Yeah. Brilliant. Any other pearls of wisdom?_

**Continue playing the game. **

_What does that even mean?_

**Got to go. Past You is even needier than you.**

_Needier than . . . hang on, what 'needs' has he got, exactly?_

**I'll write when I know more.**

_Sherlock!_

_Sherlock?_

But he was gone. John wanted to take heart, and he was tremendously comforted by having communicated with his Sherlock, at least in some form, but it was so hard to take anything for granted, to count on being able to reach Sherlock again when he needed to, wanted to.

Though his burden felt just a bit lighter as he dressed, pulling on the layers of his costume, readying himself to play his part, the real John beneath felt the darkness waiting in the shadows. He knew himself well enough to picture what his life would become without a Holmes in it, and it was a dreary image indeed.

* * *

><p>After a quick, private consultation with Barrymore, John sat down to a blessedly full breakfast with Henry. It was agreed that Henry would stay under guard at the hall, and John would make his way across the moor again, towards the nearest neighbors-the Stapletons of Merripit House. Henry worried for their safety, as they lived only with one elderly couple as servants. John had enough problems without fussing over the neighbors, too, but Henry made a point of stating that Miss Stapleton in particular was sometimes incautious in her walks along the moor, and John got the distinct impression that the baronet was rather fond of her.<p>

_Of course he is_, John thought as he walked along the yew alley, the revolver a comforting weight at his side. _Because what's an adventure story without some romance thrown in?_

John stopped short of criticizing Henry though, recognizing that he'd managed to fall into some romance himself-at first, inadvertently: that warm, lazy kiss with Holmes that hinted at banked passion and urgency. But the second kiss, the one John chose to bestow in a moment of impulse . . . that one was harder to rationalize away. He had told himself he was playing his part, but that didn't explain why he found his face warming at the memory of Holmes' little intake of breath, the softness of his lips against his own.

John sniffed and walked faster, determined not to think about it for another moment.

But then, Sherlock's question, what was _that _about? He replayed their conversation in his mind, not needing to refer the journal in his coat pocket, for it was etched already in his memory. Sherlock had told him to "isolate the most important question" and criticized him for not prioritizing, and yet, faced with all the information John had written the night before, Sherlock's first and only question had been, "He _kissed _you?"

Huh. Priorities.

And what of Watson's neediness? Watson and Holmes were clearly in an established romantic, sexual relationship, and what if Watson had assumed Sherlock and John were as well? Was he . . . Would he . . .

John grit his teeth and slammed shut that particular door in his mind. His gaze lifted and he stopped his march to step through the north gate, finding the path much more easily now that there was light. Much of the low fog had burned off though the day remained overcast and grey, and he was able to see much further-so much so that he saw a figure darting about the moor. At first, his body went on alert, thinking it might be Selden, but as he continued walking, he saw the fluttering of skirts. He moved to step closer.

"Stop right there!" the woman commanded him, her voice carrying easily over the distance. He cocked his head at her, and then looked down. Only two feet in front of him lay one of the bigger mire-pits he'd seen, concealed by a patch of tall grass.

_God damn bloodthirsty moor. _

He looked up again to see the woman making her way to him, hopping around the mire-pits in a strange dance-one of which she clearly knew all the steps by heart. The skirts of her emerald green dress were tucked up into her sash, and some sort of collection bag hung from a leather strap across her torso.

"Much better if I come to you," she said as she stopped within a couple of yards of him. She smiled broadly, hazel eyes shining, and her teeth were a bright white in contrast to her tan skin. A few tendrils of her dark hair had escaped the confines of her wide-brimmed hat, framing her features in curling waves.

In short, she was one of the most beautiful women John Watson had ever seen.

"Thank you," he said, smiling. John Watson had many sorts of smiles for many sorts of occasions, and this one most certainly called for his Charming smile.

"Yes, well, you have got important work to do, Doctor. Can't have you sinking into the depths," she answered, returning the smile easily.

Cocking his head, John met her gaze. "You've got the advantage on me."

"Oh! Sorry, yes. Word travels remarkably fast in a small village like Grimpen. We're all so grateful you're here to sort out this awful business. Oh, but forgive me. I'm Beryl Stapleton."

John nodded. Of course she was. No wonder Henry was sweet on her.

"Ah, Miss Stapleton! Splendid. I was just making my way to Merripit House to, uh, call on you and your esteemed brother," he said, proud of how he was managing his Victorian-speak so far today.

At the mention of the brother, a cloud passed over her features, only for an instant, but John noted it before she arranged her smile on her face once more.

"Well, you'd better follow me, then, Dr. Watson."

He nodded, and she led the way, walking a step or two ahead of him. The house was still a good mile away, and they filled the time with chatting. Once John asked her about the collection bag, Beryl brightened considerably, and she explained about her interests in botany and entomology, the specimens she had collected that morning, what she had learned of the moor in her two years there. John listened, not only to her words but her voice-the tone, the mood of it, the accent. Had Holmes or Sherlock been there, they would have easily identified where she was from, down to the neighborhood, but all John could discern was a slight hitch in her accent here and there-mostly English, but something else, too.

Once they reached sight of the great house, they could see a one-horse carriage pulling up the drive. Beryl stopped talking and her posture stiffened, and she pulled the edges of skirts out of her sash, smoothing them down. She fussed a moment, tucking the loose hairs back under her hat, but it seemed a hopeless endeavor.

John had no doubt that Mr. Stapleton was the man in the carriage. As they came closer, a thin man with fair skin and dark hair alighted from the carriage, took one look at Beryl, and frowned.

"Good morning, brother," Beryl greeted, and the quiet defiance in her voice was not subtle, and John was reminded of another pair of siblings he knew.

"And to you, sister." Stapleton's silver-eyed gaze flicked to John. "I see you've collected another specimen."

If it was an attempt at humor, it fell decidedly flat, and John did not return the man's thin smile. "Dr. John Watson," he said with a curt nod. "I'm a friend of Sir Henry's."

"Jack Stapleton." He offered his hand, and John was surprised to find his grip so firm when they shook hands.

"Yes, such an ordeal Sir Henry's been through-the death of his father, and this horrible business with the hound," Jack continued, smoothing the front of his coat and looking around at nothing in particular as though bored.

Everything about this man annoyed John, and Beryl's continued unease put him on alert as well. "Sir Henry was quite concerned, actually. Wanted me to make sure no harm had come to you or yours," John said.

"How kind of you both, but I assure you, Beryl and I are quite safe." Stapleton added an insincere, placating smile, and John felt his ire stirring. "Though our staff is not so great as that of Baskerville Hall, the house here is _very _secure."

John smiled, and had either of them known him better, they'd have recognized that it was his Angry smile, the one he gave before punching someone who deserved it. Reining himself in, John settled for simply getting out of there as soon as he could. "Jolly good," he said, not caring whether it was period-appropriate. "Sir Henry will be glad to hear of it."

Beryl placed a hand on his arm, and John turned to look at her. "Do stay for tea," she said, but there wasn't much power behind it.

"I'm sure Dr. Watson has more important things to do," Stapleton dismissed, and John grit his teeth together.

Virtually ignoring the brother, John addressed the sister instead. "Perhaps another time, thank you."

Beryl gave him a genuine smile, and patted his shoulder. "Another time, then." She turned and nearly glowered at her brother, and John wanted nothing more than to extricate himself from whatever sibling rivalry was going on.

They took their leave from one another. Stapleton stepped toward the house, and Beryl moved towards the mare that had pulled the carriage, feeding her something from her collection bag. John turned to go back onto the moor, but then heard his name.

"Oh, Dr. Watson," Stapleton was saying from the steps. "I don't suppose your colleague will be joining you?"

John squinted at him. "Colleague?"

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Pausing a moment at consider why Stapleton had asked, John answered, "He'll come when I need him."

Stapleton nodded. "Very good," he said, and turned away again, stepping up to the main door, which was opened for him, and disappearing inside. Before John had a moment to ponder further, Beryl was at his elbow.

"Doctor, I implore you-"

John looked down to her earnest face, etched with concern as her hands grasped his forearm tightly.

"-get Henry away from this wretched place!"

Brows drawing down, John asked, "Miss Stapleton, do you know something? Do you know who is threatening Henry?"

"No; not specifically." She loosened her grip, and she looked up at him with pleading eyes, clearly as taken with Henry as he was with her. "I just know he is in danger as long as he's here."

"I'm doing everything in my power to protect him."

She let go his arm. "Thank you, Doctor." Seemingly embarrassed by her passionate entreaty, she sniffed and took a step back, painting on a smile. "Godspeed," she said, and she turned away, walking towards the house.

Looking up at the door as it closed behind her, John pressed his lips together in a tight frown. What the hell kind of gothic soap opera had he gotten himself into?

* * *

><p><em>Notes: Big pirate-y kisses to Armada for speedy and thorough beta services.<em>


	7. Chapter 7

_Sorry for the delay, dear readers! I've been sick this last week and I'm behind on absolutely everything._

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><p><strong><em>Chapter 7. <em>**_In Which There is a Jug of Wine, A Loaf of Bread, And Thou. Sort of._

John spent the next hour eking his way out across the moor, making very little progress. It was impossible to find any tracks-human or canine-in the murky, spongy earth, and every hut he had come across so far was like the one he and Barrymore had found the night before: empty and uninhabited for ages.

It was noon, and whatever hope of sunlight there had been was doused by the dark clouds moving eastward across the sky. The already strong smell of damp earth intensified, and John felt rather certain it would rain soon-if not because of the physical signs, then because that seemed to be his luck lately. John's stomach complained, and he remembered the lunch Mrs. Barrymore had packed for him that now lay tucked in his inner coat pocket, still warm against his chest. Suddenly ravenous, he dug into his pocket, bringing out the towel-wrapped pasty and the metal flask of tea.

His teeth broke through the hardy crust and seasoned beef and vegetables filled his mouth, the juices dancing along his tastebuds, and he thought the one thing he might miss from this whole crazy adventure was the food. He stopped his walking and closed his eyes just a moment, savoring the tangible comfort and warmth the pasty offered, the simplicity of it-no blasted mystery to it, no hidden meaning, no romantic entanglements.

Practicality surfacing, John ate only half, wrapping the remainder up and stowing it away in his pocket for later. There was no telling what the rest of the afternoon would bring, after all.

* * *

><p>Luck changing in his favor for once, John caught a break. As he peeked into yet another stone hut (his ninth that day), gun drawn before him, a welcome sight greeted his eyes. Though no one was home, there were clear signs someone had been living here, and recently. The embers in the hearth still glowed, heat emanating out from them, and a kettle hung on a swinging hook alongside the fireplace. A cot of sorts had been rigged opposite the fire from a mattress made of dry moss and straw, bound by thin rope and covered with several blankets. A simple wooden chair sat next to the hearth, and on a stone shelf near the roughly-hewn window there was an unlit lantern, a brown glass bottle, and a wicker basket filled with a pungent cheese, dense brown bread, and a pot of quince jam.<p>

_Finally_, though John. This had to be Selden's hideout, and John wasn't letting a chance to catch the murderer unawares slip through his fingers. He pulled the chair back a bit, closer to the fire so that he would be hidden from anyone's line of sight if they looked in through the window or the doorway, but he would be able to see them, the darkness inside the hut aiding him. He sat straight, eyes sharp and revolver in hand as the first raindrops began to fall.

* * *

><p>Patience was a situational trait for John Watson. Given the promise of impending adventure, John could wait. Between cases he relaxed and slept and wrote without feeling any need to infuse action or create drama in his life, for he was confident they would pop up without any prompting on his part. Same with the army, which for him, had been long periods of waiting punctuated by flashes of combat. When danger was on the wind, he could sit back and let the anticipation focus him. Still him.<p>

There were times, though, when stillness and quiet were not partnered with the potential for excitement, no oncoming highs or lows, just a long, flat line of existence strung out into the foreseeable future. In those times, John felt almost as if he were slipping away from himself, fading to muted shades of beige.

Now, however, John felt a different sort of slippage. There was adventure and danger in spades around him, but yet he felt himself drifting, away from Sherlock, away from himself. Pulling out the journal with one hand, John fingered over to the last page used, hoping for new words to have appeared in the last few hours. But there was nothing, and John felt more than disappointment. He recognized something akin to despair was brewing in his chest, as readily as he had sensed the coming of the storm now assailing the moor. Because as clever as Sherlock was, as Holmes was, this was nothing any of them had ever dealt with before, and when John tucked the journal away, he felt his hope beginning to drift from him as well.

It was in this mood adventure found him once more.

The scraping of boot against stone alerted him, and a tall, hulking figure filled the doorway. John's hand held the revolver steady as the figure turned and faced him.

"It really is a lovely afternoon, my dear Watson," the man said, and John's heart nearly leapt into his throat.

"No need for gunplay at present, I would imagine," said Holmes with a sly smile, and John lowered his arm, feeling for all the world as though a great mantle of sadness had been lifted from his shoulders.

Holmes turned away a moment, removing a massive coat and wide-brimmed hat and setting them in a corner near the window, his silhouette now transformed back into the one John recognized, the slim but strong build, the tailored suit, and smooth, dark hair.

Standing from the chair and tucking the revolver away on the rough shelf above the fireplace, John faced Holmes and made a decision.

"We need to talk."

Holmes looked him up and down with his keen blue eyes and raised his eyebrows. "Yes, I expect so."

"I'm not who you think I am."

"Mmm."

"I'm not . . ." _God_. Something about saying it out loud made it so much more inconceivable. John was compelled to inhale sharply, though it did not make what he had to say any easier. "I am not _your _Watson. I am someone else's Watson. Another Sherlock's Watson."

Holmes' face remained calm, and when he said nothing, John continued.

"I'm from-" He cleared his throat. "-the future."

The silence was so long that John wondered if Holmes had heard him or if he had even spoken the words aloud. As John searched his features for any sign of acceptance, the mask cracked, and Holmes began to laugh, loudly, without restraint. Goggle-eyed, John watched as Holmes appeared to have a sort of fit, holding his belly and bending over a bit as he laughed.

"I know," John said, looking down and chuckling, "it sounds ridiculous."

Before he could look up again, he felt the full force of Holmes crashing into him, knocking him backwards. His back hit the stone wall with a thud, and he looked up to see Holmes glaring at him, lips drawn tightly over his teeth in a grimace.

"Jesus Christ, Holmes!" John spat, but he didn't push Holmes away.

"Imposter!" Hands clenching the lapels of John's coat, Holmes shoved him anew.

"Yes!" John agreed, nodding, and then grimacing. "Sort of!" He raised his hands as high as he could with Holmes half-throttling him, and spread his fingers in surrender, but Holmes was not appeased.

"Where is Watson!"

John took a quick breath. "_Your_ Watson is with _my _Sherlock."

Though his grip loosened a fraction, Holmes' face twisted up in doubt. "In the _future_?" he asked with scorn.

"Look, I know it sounds ludicrous, and I don't have any verifiable way of proving it, but it is the truth." He waited until the suspicious blue eyes met his. "I swear it."

Brows drawing down, Holmes' eyes narrowed to slits. "_You have his face._"

"I know," John said softly, trying to convey some miserable sympathy through his features as he looked back at a man who wore the same face as his Sherlock.

Holmes shoved a hand under the upper edge of John's waistcoat, his fingers pressing against his left shoulder. "You have his _scar_."

John nodded. "And yet." He looked into Holmes' piercing eyes, and his own eyes crinkled with entreaty. "You _know _I'm not him."

Holmes remained frozen as he was, eyes full of heat, hands still laid upon John in anger and confusion. John tried to make himself as nonthreatening as possible, keeping his muscles loose, his features soft. _Please, please, believe me._ He scanned his mind for something he could say, something to convince Holmes of this impossible truth. Though Holmes' icy gaze remained the same, John felt Holmes' grip loosen where he clenched at John's lapel until the fingers now just rested along the fabric of John's coat. John marshalled his courage. _Now, Watson._

"When you have eliminated the impossible-" John began quietly. _Please, God, let this work._

"-whatever remains, however improbable-" Holmes continued, the words escaping from him softly, almost against his will.

"-must be the truth," they said together.

Holmes' face went oddly blank for a moment, but it was a mask, something John was well-acquainted with from Sherlock's own version of it, and so John still caught the hint of wonder and recognition that crossed his features-a slight widening of his eyes, the modest parting of his lips-before the eagle-eyed focus returned.

"Tell me _everything_." Holmes dropped his hands away and took a step back. "Omit nothing," he ordered with an imperious wave, "no matter how insignificant you may believe it to be."

John held up a hand in compliance. "All right." He'd guessed already that Holmes would want all the details. "But I'm going to sit. I suggest you do, too-it's not a short story."

Sitting across the cot, his legs straight and his back against the stone wall, John watched Holmes carefully. Though grateful that he'd somehow persuaded him to listen, John was not at all complacent. It was going to take more than earnestness to convince him, and he hoped his narrative-and the journal-would be enough. Holmes, for his part, seemed willing to hear him out. In fact, he seemed prepared to settle in for a long talk, moving over to the little fireplace to poke at the embers with the fire iron and adding a log from the pile to the side. Once the flames caught, Holmes went over to what John thought of as the 'pantry', grabbing the basket of food and the dark brown bottle from the shelf.

He set the basket on the cot and handed the bottle to John. As Holmes arranged himself a few feet from him, John tipped the bottle gently. "What's this?"

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Surely they have whisky in the future."

John gave him a little smile. "Yeah, but what's it for? I'm already planning to tell you everything."

His long fingers slipping over John's as he took the bottle, Holmes pulled out the cork stopper and sipped generously. John found himself watching Holmes' lips where they met the rim, noting the undulation along his throat as he swallowed. As Holmes pulled the bottle away from his lips, he caught John's gaze-and John did not turn away.

"Let us consider it Coleridge's 'suspension of disbelief'," Holmes said, handing it back over. "In liquid form."

John grasped the bottle. "Yeah, all right." He took a generous pull of his own, his eyes never leaving Holmes, who watched John as closely as John had watched him. He held the bottle out to Holmes, their fingers brushing against each other's again as Holmes took it and then replaced the cork.

The strangeness of their situation vibrated between them, and seeing the look of expectation in Holmes' eyes, John felt a crackle of excitement-and trepidation.

Having no idea if Holmes would actually believe a word of it, John took a shuddering breath and began to tell his tale.

* * *

><p><em>Note: Thank you to Armada and Toast for speedy and insightful betawork! #<em>


	8. Chapter 8

**_Chapter 8. _**_In Which There is Imagination and Impulse, Incidents and Accidents, Hints and Allegations. _

As the fire and the whisky warmed them, John related the entire tale again, Holmes listening intently and going so far as to examine the journal with his magnifying glass. Disappointed that there was still no new word from Sherlock, John left the journal open and set it at the edge of the cot.

They lapsed into a foggy silence, sitting beside each other on the makeshift bed. John stared out the window at the rain as it poured steadily outside, and his thoughts turned sorrowful once more.

"It's mad, I know." He took another generous sip from the brown bottle and then held it loosely in his hand, his elbows resting on his bent knees. "I don't expect you to believe it. I hardly do, and I'm living it."

The pause from Holmes was long enough that now John was doubly sure that Holmes did not believe him, and he smiled miserably to himself, dropping his gaze to the floor.

After a while, Holmes began. "My profession-_our_ profession-"

John looked over to him.

"-requires an open mind. How often has what others consider impossible turned out to be the solution to the puzzle?"

Knitting his brow, John tilted his head at Holmes. "Nice of you to say so."

Holmes' eyebrows lifted. "And _your _Holmes, I take it, is not so nice?"

"He has his moments," John said, smiling to himself. "But mostly he's an abrasive arse."

Holmes surprised him by smiling in return. "I suspect my Watson might say the same about me."

The corner of John's mouth quirked up. "Your _dear _Watson."

"That I have refrained from accosting you again is testament to how much I'm willing to wait and see whether the future Mr. Holmes communicates once more to verify your account. If I believed Watson were in danger or had been injured, your uncanny resemblance to him would offer you no protection."

Holmes eyes glittered with intensity, and John had no doubt he spoke the truth. Marvelling at how much this Holmes appeared to care for his Watson, John's expression softened. "How did the two of you get together? Romantically, I mean?"

Eyes widening a moment, Holmes opened his mouth as if to answer but then turned his head away a moment. When he looked at John again, his tone was matter-of-fact-but his slight stammer betrayed he was not as reserved as he wished to seem. "Oh. I. I admit, I was not as astute in my powers of observation with him as you might think."

John thought of his own emotionally clueless Sherlock, and said, "You don't say?"

"No, it's true. He finally lost his not inconsiderable patience with me and demonstrated his affection in a manner that even I had to concede was unequivocal."

Curiosity pressed at John. "And how did he do that?"

A pink flush bloomed across Holmes' pale cheeks. "He kissed me. Thoroughly, and passionately. Right over the breakfast table."

John chuckled softly. A wistful expression passed over Holmes' face.

"What is it?"

Holmes half-shrugged. "Even your laugh is nearly indistinguishable from his."

"Nearly?"

"There are subtle differences, of course." His lip quirked up. "And some not so subtle." He raised his hand, his index finger coming to rest across the top of John's upper lip.

John smiled, his skin brushing against Holmes' finger, and he lifted his own hand up, reaching out cautiously to touch Holmes' cheek with his fingertips. Despite the circumstances, John felt himself drawn to Holmes, wanting to trace the similarities, the differences between him and Sherlock. Holmes seemed to feel a similar pull, his hand sliding down to cup John's chin in the cradle of his fingertips.

"You have _his _face, you know," John said. His fingers nearly burned from the sensation of Holmes' skin beneath them, the fact that he had never touched his Sherlock this way-reverently, gently, with the promise of more. It was easier, somehow, in this time, with this facsimile of Sherlock, to be bold. The discernible attraction between them compelled John to follow his impulses, and he let his eyes roam over Holmes' features, saw Holmes' own gaze do the same. The rain outside continued, shrouding them, and John let his fingers ghost over Holmes' features as he spoke. "Same eyes. Same cheekbones. Same lips."

"You miss him," Holmes said, his voice soft and pitched low.

John could feel the rumble of Holmes' voice where his palm rested just below Holmes' jaw. He swallowed, his throat feeling tight, and his voice came softly. "Of course I do."

Holmes tilted his face a fraction, pressing just a little into John's palm. His voice softened as well, a hush against the sound of the rain. "I miss my John."

The hand that held John's chin slipped forward, coming to rest at John's nape, fingers traveling up into his short hair to cup the back of his head.

"His smile. His eyes." Holmes' fingers tightened, and John let himself lean forward, just a bit, just a little. "The feel of him."

Breath quickening, John held Holmes' gaze, unwilling-unable-to break it.

"Have you felt this with him?"

John didn't have to ask what Holmes' meant. The attraction hummed between them like an energy field.

"There was a moment," John answered, his voice breathy and low. "Lots of moments, but one when I thought, 'maybe'. 'Maybe he feels the same.' I thought I saw it in his eyes." John dropped his gaze, remembering the hallway, the interruption, the way Sherlock's face rearranged itself. He looked up again. "Maybe I imagined it."

"Imagination is a powerful thing," Holmes conceded. "It would take very little effort, for example, to imagine my Watson here. That it was his nape beneath my fingers. His touch upon my face."

"Yes," John breathed.

"I imagine it would be easy for you to do the same. To see, in your mind, his eyes in mine, to sense his touch through my skin." Holmes flexed his fingers across the back of John's neck, and John felt the sensation roll down his spine to pool in his groin. He stared at Holmes' lips, pale pink and supple, and in that moment he took the leap, letting go the reins that constrained his imagination so that beneath his gaze reality altered. The bow-shaped lips became Sherlock's lips, the piercing blue eyes became Sherlock's gaze, full of heat.

"Yes," John breathed, just as he pulled the other man forward and kissed him. Warm, soft lips met his, eager but unhurried, and John kissed back experimentally. He parted his lips to deepen the kiss and a small moan reached his ears. The lips he kissed mirrored his, opening up to him, and they pulled each other closer, probing gently at each other's mouths with lips and tongues.

The strangeness of it all re-emerged, breaking the spell imagination had cast, and even as they kissed, John found himself comparing, found himself thinking. This kiss, as the ones he'd shared with Holmes before, was exciting, yes, because it was strange and tinged with a sense of the forbidden, and yet-the spark did not catch.

The almost-kiss he and Sherlock had shared had held the promise of wildfire.

Holmes had reached a similar conclusion, or so it seemed to John as Holmes pulled back, breaking their kiss. John retreated as well, and the two men looked at each other.

"Perhaps there are limits to imagination," Holmes said with kindness.

John gave a sad smile of agreement. "You'll have him back soon. You and Sherlock will figure this out, and we'll-each of us-get back to where and when we belong."

Holmes smiled, but John saw the concern linger in his eyes.

"Then you can apologize for whatever you did that ticked him off," John teased, lifting the bottle to his lips.

Mouth popping open, Holmes looked positively offended. "What makes you so certain that it was _I _who-"

John grinned and shook a finger at him. "Balance of probability," he said, and a giggle bubbled out from his throat.

"You, sir, are a rake."

"Maybe. But I'm right."

Holmes narrowed his eyes at John. "Possibly."

"That's Sherlockian for yes."

Holmes smirked and John laughed, taking another drink, and then Holmes was reaching for the bottle. John passed it over, thinking Holmes wanted a sip, but the man replaced the cork in the bottle and set it in the basket off to the side.

Frowning at him, John pulled the journal into his lap and dug a pencil out from his pocket.

"What are you going to write?" Holmes asked, his brows drawn together in suspicion.

John did not look up from the page. "Something rakish." He dotted the last period emphatically and handed it over for Holmes to read.

_Sherlock. Despite your "orders" to play the game, I've told Holmes everything. We've had a bit of a snog and now it's all sorted. Laterz._

"'Snog' means a _tête-à-tête_, I take it."

"Good deduction. Yeah." John gave another grin and then shoved at the mattress as though trying to fluff it like a pillow. Giving up, he removed his overcoat and balled it up against the wall in the corner and arranged himself so he could lean his head against it. He glanced out at the rain that persisted outside the window and glanced back at Holmes. "May as well make yourself comfortable."

Holmes watched him, his curiosity apparent as he set the journal down. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out his pipe and began to prepare it. A smile tugged at one corner of his lips. "You are not a nice man, John Watson."

Eyes already closed, John answered. "I'm _really _not."

* * *

><p>John did not know how much time had passed, only that he'd been having a fitful dream about a shadowy beast with glowing eyes one moment and was being gently shaken awake the next.<p>

He blinked once up at Holmes' face and then focused. "Yes?"

"The rain has ceased for now but looks to resume soon." Holmes stood and pulled on his black overcoat. "I suggest we go back to Baskerville Hall with haste."

John nodded and got up from where he'd wedged himself into the corner with more creaking in his bones than he'd like to admit. It was getting late, the sun having just barely dipped below the horizon, and he almost shuddered at the thought of another night on the moor. He quickly shook out the overcoat he'd been abusing as a pillow and pulled it on, attempting to smooth the creases he'd put into it. When he looked up, Holmes was frowning at him.

"What?"

Rather than answer, Holmes stepped forward and reached out without preamble, pulling down at John's lapels, straightening his ascot and tucking it back in neatly. He glanced up at John's disheveled hair and tsked.

"Tell me," Holmes said, producing a comb from his pocket and handing it to John. "Is everyone in the future so slovenly?"

John found himself wondering what Victorian was for "sod off", but took the comb and ran it through his hair anyway. He handed it back and glanced around the room, seeking the journal.

Holmes picked up the basket and tapped its side. "No reply, as yet."

John's heart sank a little to hear it, but he tried to remind himself that Sherlock only ever did things according to his own timetable, and that just because they hadn't heard from him in nearly twelve hours, there was no reason to assume the worst.

Holmes had already doused the fire and gathered their things, so that soon they were ducking under the low doorway and going out onto the darkening moor together. They talked only when necessary, each man focused on the winding path.

They had not made it far when a sudden cry pierced the quiet. Both men turned towards the source of the noise, and John wasted no time in pulling out his revolver.

"This way," Holmes said, and John followed as Holmes hurried-as much as one could on the moor, anyway. No other sounds of distress reached their ears, but soon they came to a craggy edge, and when they peered over the lip, the cliff face fell sheer away, a twelve-foot drop. On the rocks below lay a rumpled shape, shadowed by the cliff, but there was no mistaking what it was-a body, splayed face-down upon the rocks below.

John scrambled around the edge, making his way to the bottom before Holmes, though he was fast on John's heels.

"Jesus, Holmes, I think it's Henry," he said, dropping next to the body and pressing his fingers to the dead man's neck.

"What makes you say so?"

"The clothes-this coat. It's almost identical to the one he wears whenever we go out."

"_Almost_ identical?"

John nodded. His hands prodded gently at the body as Holmes circled around it.

"He's dead. Broken neck."

"Doubtless from the fall. He was running from something, and filled with enough fear that he failed to see the drop before he ran over it. But listen, Watson! We're about to have a witness upon us, if I am not very much mistaken."

Looking up to where Holmes' eyes were focused on the path that led up to the cliff-top, John saw the silhouette of a man walking down with an unrushed, jaunty gait. The man paused a moment when he saw them, and then continued, and John recognized the face of Jack Stapleton.

"Dr. Watson! What's happened?" he asked, though his tone and the indifferent look in his brown eyes indicated he hardly cared. "I heard a cry."

"We heard it, too," John answered. Holmes deliberately stepped aside to more plainly reveal the body on the rocks at their feet.

"Good heavens! That's-that's Sir Henry!" Stapleton cried.

"That's what we were about to ascertain," Holmes said. "Watson, if you'll assist me in turning over this unfortunate man, that we may see his face."

Bending down to help roll the body, John kept one eye on Stapleton, who had just jumped to the top of his suspect list. Once turned, a stranger's face looked up at him-dirty, bearded, with a wild look to the eyes-and John let out a breath of relief.

"Oh, thank God," Stapleton said. John couldn't pinpoint it; Stapleton's comment seemed sincere on the surface, but something about him didn't sit right with John, and he vowed to discuss it with Holmes as soon as they were alone once more.

"But who is the poor devil?" Stapleton asked, looking to John, but it was Holmes who answered.

"That is the escaped convict, Albert Selden."

"Oh! Well. Of course, you would know, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Stapleton said, and John's eyes narrowed. Holmes, however, took it in stride, and he bowed curtly.

John introduced them through half-gritted teeth. "Holmes, this is Mr. Jack Stapleton, of Merripit House."

"Yes. I suspect Mr. Selden has spent the last fortnight going mad with isolation and fear. Tonight, he seems to have let his imagination get the best of him, with fatal consequences."

"Perhaps he feared the hound," Stapleton offered.

"Ah, yes, the mythical hound. I've no use for legend or rumor, Mr. Stapleton. Facts are what is needed to solve this case-and they have been in short supply, I'm afraid." Holmes spoke in a calm, carefree manner, and Stapleton's curiosity seemed roused, his head tilting to one side.

"Have you been able to shed any light on this puzzle of ours, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes gave a shrug. "One cannot always have the success one hopes. It has not been a satisfactory case, a truth I shall have to carry with me back to London tomorrow."

_Tomorrow?_ John barely refrained from asking out loud, but the question sat clearly in his gaze as he looked up at Holmes.

"You return so soon?" Stapleton asked, equally surprised.

"That is my intention. Now, as for this fellow, I suggest we cover him and inform the constabulary, that they might remove him. There is nothing more to be done."

John took a blanket from the basket to arrange over Selden's body. Stapleton stood well back and snuck glances at Holmes as they covered Selden. Though he invited them to return to Merripit House with him for dinner, Stapleton was visibly relieved when they declined, and he took his leave, walking back the way he'd came, up towards the cliff and away, the red glow of his lit cigar signalling his location in the twilight.

As soon as Stapleton was out of earshot, John turned to Holmes.

"You bloody well aren't leaving me here alone again!" he hissed.

Holmes frowned at him. "What? No, of course not." He waved a hand a John. "We've got a murderer to ensnare, and I've just conceived the net with which we shall catch him."

John tilted his chin up at Holmes in the half-light.

Holmes' wide smile of delight nearly bisected his face. "I wouldn't miss this for the world!"

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><p><em>Notes: Thanks for your patience, dear readers, and thank you again to Armada and Toast for insightful betaing. <em>


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